Yeah, but are we sure he's dead?

"Soup?

"Soup!

"SOUP!"

Wow, someone around here really wants soup. Funny, people used to call me 'Soup.' It was a nickname I had, back in the day. It was always super awkward whenever people screamed "SOUP!" at me in the street.

"SOUP!"

Oh shit.

"Hello!" I say, my eyes landing on a very familiar-looking face.

You should recognise her too. It's Weez. Or Janet. Or Weez. I still haven't got the hang of this Twitter-nickname-in-real-life thing.

"I suppose I could have used your real name, but I'm not comfortable with that just yet."

Yeah, real names are weird.

"Where are you off to?" I ask. We're standing opposite Waterloo station. The potential destinations for a theatre-nerd around here are endless.

Janet (Weez?) points at the imposing theatre looming over us. "There," she says. She's off to see A Very Expensive Poison at The Old Vic. Or possibly The Very Controversial Loos at The Old Vic. One of those.

"I'm down there," I say, doing my own point, but this one in the other direction. "I'm going to the young one."

"For the bloody wedding."

"Yeah, I fucking love Lorca." That's true. I do fucking love Lorca.

"I worry about Lorca," says Weez (or should it be Janet?).

"I think it's too late to worry about Lorca," I say carefully. I think Lorca is dead. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I'm almost entirely positive that Lorca is dead. But then, it's so hard to tell with playwrights. You can never truly be sure whether they have actually crossed over, or are just really busy producing esoteric farces in their writing shed.

"Fair," says Janet with a nod. "Who am I going to worry about then?"

After some discussion, we settle on Nicholas Hytner. Well, I mean, someone has to.

And with that, we part, to take up our positions at opposite ends of The Cut.

On my end, there's a bit of a queue at the box office, but it moves fast, with the box officers leaning out over their desk and waving us forward as they finish with each person.

When it's my turn, I give my surname.

"Maxine?" she asks. I confirm that yup, that's my name. "Row B," she says. "Just around this corner."

It's far too early to go in, so I double back, sneaking my way past the box office queue towards the programme seller I'd spotted on my way in.

"That's four pounds, please," he says when I ask for one.

I rummage around in my bag. I've been toting around a new one for a past week or so. It's big. Really big. Which is great. I love it. But it does make paying for things a teensy bit difficult.

"Sorry, my bag's too big," I explain as I feel around for my purse. "I can never find my wallet."

He laughs indulgently, as one does when a woman who is old enough to be your... aunt... is trying to play off her patheticness with humour.

I do find the purse though, give him a fiver, and get a programme, with change, in return.

I check the time.

It's still far too early. I try walking around the bar, but the thing about the Young Vic bar is that, it's really nice. And everyone knows it's really nice. Which means that it's super crowded. And I don't do well with crowds.

So I go outside, and find a vacant patch of wall to lean against.

There's a big group of young people here. They look super excited.

"You can go in now!" says one of them. "You might want to go in and look at the set. Especially the lower sixth. Go in! Go in! Go in!"

It takes my brain way too long to realise that the lower sixth is not some bottom portion of the set, but a year group. And these young people are actually here on a school trip.

I am so old, and so tired, it's not even funny anymore.

Well, fuck it. I'm also going in to have a look at the set. I'm hoping it's an interesting one if a teacher is getting all hopped up about it.

I squeeze myself through the crowds clogging the gaps between the tables, looping my way around the bar towards the door to the main space at the Young Vic.

The wall has been painted up with an arrow to show the way. "Blood Wedding," it says, in an exact reenactment of all my personal nuptial-based fantasies.

There's a young usher on the door. I mean a Welcome Teamer. Sorry. I almost forgot we were at the Young Vic tonight. No ushers here. Anyway, he thanks the equally young men ahead of me with a "cheers!" but drops the laddishness as I step forward. It seems that I've been upgraded from aunt to full-on grandmother, as is my proper place in this world.

"It's one hour fifty with no readmission," he explains carefully before waving me through.

Inside the door, just as the dark corridor splits of into two opposite directions, another usher, shit, I mean, another Welcome Teamer, lies in wait. To welcome team us.

"This way?" I say, pointing down one corridor. I've read the signage. I know where I'm going.

"That's right!" she confirms cheerfully, and I'm on my way.

There's a short line of people queueing down here.

They must be the lottery ticket folks, waiting to be told where they'll be sitting.

I've done that before. Bought one of those tickets and hung out in the corridor until everyone else has been seated, then sent in to fill in the gaps.

I considered going for it again this time. A bit of experience to tell you about. But... eh. My ticket was only a tenner anyway. And nine months into the marathon I'm pretty exhausted. Let's keep this shit as easy as we can for the last leg of this challenge, shall we?

I keep on walking, until the wall gives way to an opening into the auditorium.

A Welcome Teamer stands waiting.

"B57?" I ask, showing him my ticket.

"B57. B57," he repeats look around him. "Err, over here, and... yeah... second row."

He points across the stage to aisle on the opposite side.

Tonight, we're in the round. Or rather, we're in the octagon.

I go up the steps, to the second row, and squint at the seat on the end. The seat numbers are on tiny little metal squares, slipped into equally tiny frames at the top of the backrest. Except this little square is making a break for it. I thwart its plans, tapping it back into place.

57.

That's me.

And what a funny seat it is.

Slightly apart from its neighbour and set at an angle. Like that single jump seat you find in black cabs, which the drunkest girl on any night out will always manage to find herself sitting in, and falling off, on the way home.

I don't think I'll be falling off this one.

It's wide and comfortable, and there's a board in front of my legs that will prevent my tumbling forward into the front row.

What it doesn't have, is a great view.

Oh, I can see most of what's going on in the octagon. For all that teacher's encouragement to look at the set, there isn't all that much to look out. Just a pile if jumbled chairs in the middle and a cross hanging from the ceiling. That's what I can see at least. But I suspect there is something else hidden from view by the wall of the aisle on my side.

Perhaps I should have got myself one of those lottery tickets after all.

I get out my programme and have a look. There's a transcribed conversation between the director Yael Farber, and Kwame Kwei-Armah, which kinda confirms to me that the Young Vic is pushing hard into the cult of the artistic director. But whatever. Then there's another discussion with the director, but this one is with the adaptor, Marina Carr. That's interesting. I guess.

But between these two spreads is a timeline of Lorca's life, and I am relieved to confirm, that yes, he is indeed, no longer in the land of the living. He was executed in 1936.

They never found his grave though...

Just saying.

The Welcome Teamers make their way around the octagon, hoping up the stairs to make sure we're all behaving before the performance starts.

"If you have your phones out, now's the time to turn it off," our Welcome Teamer says before slipping into a seat on the end of the front row.

I put my phone away.

I'm sitting right behind him.

I better be good.

The lights dim, and I tuck my hands under my thighs. I'm really quite excited about this play. Because I love Lorca. I've already said that. But like, seriously, I really love Lorca. And if this wedding is bloody enough to set Janet worrying about him, well, I am here for it. I want to see a stage soaked with the red stuff. I want the floorboards stained permanently. I want to come away from this with a dry cleaning bill.

And things are looking promising. There's a woman on her knees, cleaning up a puddle of some sinister liquid or other off the floor.

It isn't blood though. And I immediately lose interest.

Not for long though. It is Lorca after all.

He manages to create drama even without inflicting fatal wounds on all his characters.

A simple boy marries girl is marred by a backstory worthy of G.R.R. Martin, a bunny-boiler of an ex-boyfriend, and, you know, parents.

Through into a mix Thalissa Teixeira as a sentient moon, some aerial running from Gavin Drea, and Aoife Duffin wearing the cutest little button boots, and you've got yourself one hell of a play. Plus, when Drea and David Walmsley take off their shirts to have a knife fight... that is some high-class art right there.

I don't even mind that I have to wait right for the end for them to unscrew the caps on the fake blood bottles. It was worth it.

Fucking weird though.

I'm beginning to worry about Lorca.

Are we really sure he's dead? I could do with a really niche comedy right about now.

Who let the dogs out?

I’m back at the Young Vic tonight.

And no, we’re not talking about all that stuff going on. I’m not getting involved. I don’t know what’s going on and I refuse to have an opinion on the matter.

Not that I haven’t been thinking about it. A lot. And talking about it. A lot. It doesn’t help that one of the upcoming shows at my work features a dancer in… that show. I mean, how do you credit that in a biography without sounding like you are taking sides?

No. We’re not talking about it. Not here.

The controversy doesn’t seem to have damaged attendance figures though. The Cut is absolutely thronging with people having a last drink and a cigarette before going in. That Death of a Salesman is a juggernaut, and nothing can get in its way.

I’m not here to see that though.

“The surname’s Smiles,” I say to the lady behind the box office. “It’s for Ivan and the Dogs,” I add hurriedly as her hands reach for the larger of the two ticket boxes on the counter. I allow myself a smug smile. It isn’t often I manage to remember the name of a play in these situations.

She nods and digs out my ticket. “Maxine? You’re in the far corner,” she says, pointing off to the other side of the bar.

Ticket in hand, I launch myself into the crowded bar and head in the direction she was pointing. And find myself back in the exact same place I queued for Bronx Gothic on my last visit. The signage, stencilled onto the brickwork, is on the same patch of wall. And the arrow is pointing towards the same door.

I begin to panic.

Don’t tell me that I booked into the same venue twice. Please don’t tell me that.

I check my ticket.

Nope. It’s the Clare. Not the Maria.

Okay then. We’re alright.

There’s an usher on the door. Sorry, scrap that. There’s a member of the Welcome Team on the door. But no one else. It’s too early for the queue to start forming. And I’m not about to start it.

I turn around and go outside, finding a spare patch of wall to prop myself against and check my emails.

I seem to be leaning against some posters. I look over my shoulder to see what they are advertising.

Oh.

It’s Tree.

Because of course it is.

“Are you watching the show tonight?”

I look up. It’s a Welcome Teamer.

“Yes?”

“Death of a Salesman?”

Ah. I see. “No. No. No,” I assure here. “I’m here for the other one.” Which I’ve already forgotten the name of.

“That’s alright then,” says the Welcome Teamer, and she’s soon off rounding up any other wall-hangers.  “Are you watching Death of a Salesman? Are you watching Death of a Salesman?”

I wait a few more minutes, until the start time of the main house show has safely passed, then I go back in.

The bar is empty.

Well, relatively. Can the bar at the Young Vic ever be said to be truly empty?

At the far end, there’s a queue under the Ivan and the Dogs sign.

Not a big one. But then, it’s not a big venue. I hurry over and join the end of it.

A Welcome Teamer makes his way down the line. “I’m going to tear the tickets now,” he explains. “Make it nice and easy when you go in. The show is an hour and five minutes, and no interval.”

I give him my ticket, and he rips off the stub. And a large chunk of the actual ticket. But no matter. I may be precious about getting paper tickets, but what happens to them afterwards doesn’t bother me. I probably don’t need to tell you that I am the sort of person who cracks the spines of her paperbacks and folds down pages to mark my space. Adds character, you know.

The line is growing, almost reaching the box office now.

We wriggle and flow, breaking apart and shivering back into place, as people squeeze past us.

“Beep, beep!” says a staff members pushing a flat trolley. “Sorry! Sorry!”

The queue goes into Red Sea mode, parting for him and then splashing back into place as soon as the Deliverer of Trollies has passed through.

I jump aside for people going to the loo. For a waitress returning plates to the kitchen. For Welcome Teamers. More piss-takers. And more bar staff.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” says a waitress as she moves nimbly through the queue up towards the bar.

Honestly, the Young Vic really need to get this queue situation sorted. It’s impossible. I hope it’s next on the list after… well… you know.

I use the time to massage my hands. Work is really doing a number on me at the moment. I thought it would be the marathon that would kill me, but now I think my job might get in there first. Eleven pages of programme amends typed up before 10am this morning, and my hands are cramped the fuck up.

“Hi guys!” says the Welcome Teamer on ticket duty. “If we could make a little room for my colleague here,” he says, leading the way for the trolley pusher, now with his vehicle laden with two huge bins full to the brim with empty wine bottles.

We all shuffle out of their way, reforming the queue in their wake.

“Have I ripped you?” asks the Welcome Teamer as the trolley pusher disappears through the doors. We all nod. All ripped round here.

As one, the two Welcome Teamers open up the double doors with such ceremony I almost expect there to be a trumpet player on the other side ready to launch into a fanfare.

Instead the cry of “Has everyone been ripped?” reigns out as we walk through.

“Just remember to turn off your phone,” comes the voice of a Welcome Teamer as we make our way down the hall. “Straight down and to the right.”

I try to work out were we are in relation to the Maria, but it’s dark and this place is a labyrinth. I just focus on following everyone else and not getting lost.

Straight down. Turn right.

And there we are. The Clare. Bright and shining after so long in the dark.

A Welcome Teamer in a red polo shirt is handing out freesheets. “Wherever you like,” he says, indicating the multitude of options there are with seating.

The stage is a small square, set in the middle of the room at an angle. Around in, on four sides, are four matching banks of seats. Two rows. Seats set into wooden fortresses. The same colour as the walls, which look like someone has been having a lot of fun with panels of plywood and a nail gun.

I pick a seat in the second row, on the end, so that I’m forming a point of the diamond.

The seats begin to fill up.

“If you’re holding drinks,” announces the Welcome Teamer, “keep hold of them and don’t put them on the floor.”

“What did he say?” asks my neighbour.

“Don’t put your drinks on the floor,” her friend replies, with an audible roll of the eyes.

I say fair enough though. There isn’t much legroom and cups are liable to get kicked down there. And with all this pale wood… well, I wouldn’t envy the poor sod attempting to scrub red wine out of it.

My neighbour gets out her freesheet and starts inspecting it. “This doesn’t tell you what it’s about,” she says. “It’s just who’s in it.”

I open up my own to have a look for myself. She’s not wrong. There’s a cast list. And two biogs. One for the writer. One for the director. Nothing about the actor… which seems like a strange decision to make when there’s only one of them.

No dogs I notice. I do enjoy a dog on stage. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it’s one of the top things I enjoy seeing. I’ve even been known to book a show on the strength of its canine casting. I would say the same about cats, but I think I’ve only seen a cat once on stage. In an opera. She was called Girlie and she was very talented. Really captured the essence of ‘cat’ by sleeping and then running off stage.

“They’ve added in these seats,” my neighbour continues. “I wonder if they had complaints.”

Yes, I was wondering about that. Not the late addition of them, I’ve never been in this space before. But their arrangement. Actual chairs, sunk into wooden structures. Their legs hidden in the box below. “Before you just sat on it,” she explains.

That doesn’t sound all that comfy. This arrangement is much better. Even if it is a little bit odd-looking.

The actor, Alex Austin comes out and perches on the edge of the stage. He looks sad. I’m not surprised. Probably got a look at those freesheets.

The Welcome Teamer is hanging out the door, peering down the dark corridor, on the lookout for latecomers.

Someone does come in.

She takes one of the reserved seats, just across from me. She gets out a notebook and positions it on her lap.

Time for another round of Blogger or Director? Nah. I recognise her. No missing that fabulous hair. So shiny. Straight out of a Pantene ad. She used to work at my work. And now look at her! A fancy director.

The lights dim.

Austin gets up. He’s ready to tell us a story. A story of fists and fear and running away. A story of hunger and hiding. A story of dogs.

He pauses, grinning as he looks around the audience, after telling us about how the white dog ate his potato.

We all aww in response. A couple sitting across from me look at each other and smile.

We are all utterly charmed.

The lights flash back on. I’m left squinting against the brightness. Austin turns around, holding our stares, not allowing us to blink.

I curl round my shoulders and try to hold his gaze against the onslaught of the light, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.

Just as my poor eyes grow used to this blazing light, the theatre dims once more.

Austin finishes his story. A few snuffles make their way around the audience.

He’s moved on. Started a new life.

And at the end, it is the empty stage that gets the spotlight.

Our applause brings him back though. He bows in one direction, and then the other, before bouncing off the stage and out the door in a gigantic leap that he must have learnt from the dogs.