There is Nothin' Like a Dame

It's eleven o'clock on a Sunday morning and I am in King's Cross. Because that is my life now. By rights, I shouldn't even be awake yet. I should have a long day of shuffling around in my pyjamas ahead of me, tearing off chunks of bread direct from the loaf and applying heaps of butter without ever having to resort to such barbaric implements as knives. I should be catching up on my Netflix. I should be hunkering down under my duvet to watch the latest Bake Off episode, which I still haven't got to. Although, perhaps that's a blessing. Now that the Goth girl has gone. I suppose I could go back to The Curious Creations of Christine McConnell to satisfy my need for spider-shaped biscuits, but no: I can't. Because I'm here. In King's Cross. Fully clothed, I might add. As if this wasn't all nightmare enough. 

Anyway, I'm heading back to Kings Place. Which hasn't managed to acquire an apostrophe since my last visit. 

Through the rotating doors and past the box office. I don't need to stop there today. I somehow managed to pick up the ticket for this performance last time around, which I didn't notice until I was standing over the recycling bin, my old bag in hand, throwing out all the ticket-off cuts and receipts that have been cluttering up the bottom, before I transferred the contents over to my new bag. 

I really love my new bag. I especially love that owning it means that I didn't throw away my ticket for this morning. And I double love that all this means that I don't have to talk to any box officer, because while I'm sure they are absolutely lovely, it is only 11am, on a Sunday morning, and I am really not up to that whole interpersonal communication thing right now. 

The long table in the foyer is already filled with people sipping tea and delicately nibbling on cake. And the queue at the cafe extends all the way out, past the fancy restaurant. Turns out that the coping methods of my fellow audience members on a Sunday morning also involve baked goods. And I salute every single one of them. We will get this this together. Whether we like it or not. 

Unfortunately, there's no cake vending machine around here, and I decide to forgo any cake that would require me to talk to someone, and instead let the long escalator down to the lower ground level calm my delicate, sugar-spun, nerves instead. 

The dead woodlouse is still there, resting on the floor, his legs tucked up inside his shell and pumping out a serious mood, which I am greatly enjoying. 

I look around, trying to work out if there are any programmes for sale, and if so, where. 

There seems to be a merch desk. It’s selling CDs of the piece being performed. I tuck myself up against a wall and keep an eye on it, treating the desk as a case study into the type of people that still own the technology to play a CD. While I cannot pretend that my methodology in this experiment is entirely sound, it is interesting to note that no CDs were sold in the several minutes I stood there, and the only person approaching the desk seemed to be after a chat rather than a compact disc. 

I decide to go and have a look at the gallery. I missed it last time, but the small glimpse I got while riding on the escalator past it was enough to intrigue me.  

I go find a flight of stairs and hop up them towards the gallery level. A level entirely bypassed by the escalator, though there are lifts. 

It looks like it’s an exhibition of self-portraits up here. I don’t stop to read the explanatory note. I move straight on to the pictures. 

Some of them are really rather good. I quickly become enamoured with a crinkled face, sprouting a hairdo of flowers that curl on themselves like Medusa’s snakes. But the four-digit price tag soon has me scurrying away. 

As I walk around the near empty space, a woman barges in front of me, blocking my view.  

I get it. The lure of art. It takes me that way sometimes too. 

I move on, finding some more pieces I wouldn’t mind taking home with me if… well, if I didn’t actually work in the arts and could therefore afford to buy some. 

With a sharp blow to the back I find myself stumbling forward. 

It’s that woman again. 

Handbag out. Weaponised. 

I’m starting to get the impression that she doesn’t like me. 

I hurry away from her, looping around the mezzanine and back down the stairs. Where it’s safe. 

I might as well go in now. 

I check my ticket. It says to take the East Door. Looks like that’s the one closest to me, which is handy. 

The ticket checker on the door glances down at my proffered ticket and smiles. “Would you like a programme?” he asks. 

Fuck yeah. “I would love a programme!” I say, so enthusiastically manage to give myself a headache. 

He takes it well. “There you go!” he says, way too cheerfully for a pre-noon Sunday, and hands me the slim booklet. 

Well, look at that. A free programme. Covering the entire festival that I didn’t even know this show was part of. 

I tuck it away and concentrate on the business of finding my seat. 

It doesn’t take long. I’m at the back. I work in the arts, remember.

Not that it matters though. Not in this place. Hall One of Kings Place is smaller than I had expected, but that doesn’t stop it from being a bit lush. Colonnades of wood panelling surround the room, lit up by blue and red lights. The floor slopes down towards the small stage, where there’s a glossy black piano lying in wait. 

The seats are comfy. The leg room excellent. The sightlines… acceptable. Given that this is a music venue, I really couldn’t have expected more. 

“Are you together?” asks a woman, standing a few rows ahead of me. 

The man she’s asking nods his head. They are together. 

“You’re together. And we’re together,” she says, pointing to her companion. 

“Ah,” says the man. “Well, we had four and six so…” 

“And I have five, so if you…” 

They sort themselves out, reassigning their seats so that they can each sit next to their preferred person without the need of usher-intervention. 

How civilised. 

Two women sitting right in front of me are discussing the upcoming show of a choreographer I work with. Obviously, I’m now all ears. 

“We’re not in London,” sighs one. “Why are we paying London prices?” 

“How much are they?” 

“Sixty or seventy pounds!” she exclaims in horror. 

“They’re a hundred at Sadler’s.” 

The first woman draws in a deep breath. “That explains it then.” 

Personally, I’m always more outraged by the bottom end of the pricing spectrum than the top. That’s where you really find out how committed a venue is to accessibility. My attention drifts to the people sitting behind me.  

“You know, I’d often rather be sitting up there,” says one, meaning the upstairs seating. 

All around the room is a slim balcony with a single row of seats. It’s starting to fill up. 

I wonder why I didn’t buy up there. They must have kept it off sale until the stalls filled up. That or I was feeling flush. 

My neighbour arrives and sits down. 

She’s wearing perfume. At 11.30 in the morning. 

It hits the back of my throat and I dive into my bag to retrieve a cough sweet. Somehow I don’t think my hacking away is going to be appreciated at a show that is effectively a piano recital with a bit of talking. 

Turns out though, I’m not the only one with a touch of consumption. 

A loud, wet, chesty cough rings out in the row behind, but is quickly stifled behind a tissue. 

The red and blue lights turn to gold. 

Lucy Parham comes out, and starts playing the piano. I don’t know a lot about piano music, but it’s pretty, I guess. 

She’s joined by Harriet Walter. Dame Harriet Walter, I should say. She’ll be our narrator this evening. Telling the story of Clara Schumann in between piano pieces. 

Now, if that sounds familiar, it’s because I already saw a show about Clara Schumann, interspersed with piano pieces, over at RamJam Records. But that was called Clara, and this one is I, Clara. So they are clearly totally different production. 

I’m enjoying it though. If I have to be awake in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, I might as well have some gentle piano music to ease me along. 

The woman sitting in the row behind me might not agree. She’s struggling. Really struggling. As each piece finishes she coughs and splutters into her hankie. 

I grab another cough sweet, ready to turn around and hand it to her the next time she’s overcome with an attack. 

But then I hear something. Something less coughy and more, well, papery. 

She’s reading the programme. 

Not just the couple of pages dedicated to this performance. She’s not checking how many pieces of music are still to go. No. She’s reading the whole damn thing. 

Now, obviously I approve of programme reading. You should be digesting those things cover to cover. A lot of work goes into them, and you better appreciate it. 

But here’s the thing: not during a performance. 

Especially not during a quiet and gentle music performance. 

It’s rude. 

I unwrap the cough sweet and pop it in my own mouth. 

She don’t deserve my Jakeman’s. 

Just as Dame Walter is describing Schumann’s London fans waving her off with their handkerchiefs, a man gets out of his seat and walks towards the back. 

I think he’s making an escape, but no. He stops by the ushers. 

“There’s a strange noise,” he says in a whisper that carries loudly in this acoustically designed room. “Over by the doors. The doors at the back, over there.” 

The usher disappears. Presumably to investigate the source of the noise. That or sneak a cheeky cigarette outside.  

Either way, the man returns to his seat an remains there for the rest of the performance.  

Applause rings out. 

One man gets out his handkerchief to wave at the performers, which is a nice touch. 

Three times they are recalled to the stage. 

Parham steps forward, and the clapping stills long enough for her to talk. 

If we liked the music, an extended version is available to purchase out in the foyer, she tells us.

For those who still live in 2005 presumably. 

Personally, I’ll be waiting for it to hit Spotify. 

Those kicks were fast as lightning

As if 2019 wasn't hard enough, we've got yet another new theatre to deal with. Well, you don’t. But I do. And that's bad enough.

The Troubadour Wembley Park. Sister venue to the Troubadour White City, which is currently dark after the... limited… success of the Peter Pan transfer from the National.

It seems the good ole NT have learnt from their mistakes, and are throwing every penny of their marketing budget at the next expedition of one of their shows. The walkway to Wembley is lined with huge banners advertising War Horse. I'm not gonna lie. It all looks fucking spectacular, with those famous arches silhouetted against the night sky in the background.

It's almost a shame to leave the crowds behind in order to turn down the dark and bare side street that will take me to the actual theatre.

Now, War Horse should be a sure bet. It managed to squat in the West End for years, and has done more national tours than I can count. War Horse is fucking amazing. No one is disagreeing with that. Not even me. Which is why it might surprise you to find out that I am not actually here to see War Horse. I'm checking off this venue before War Horse has even managed to step out of the stable.

Not because of timings or anything like that.

I just... can't face it. I do not want to be sitting in a big barn of a room, losing my shit, crying over Joey. Or, even worse. sitting in a big barn of a room, losing my shit, not crying over Joey. Because if the White City branch of the Troubador empire has taught me anything, big barns are atmosphere vacuums. And there's a good chance the story, even though it is epic both in scale and scope, will get totally lost.

But hey, maybe I'm wrong. I haven't even seen the theatre. I'm speculating here. For all I know, Wembley Park’s Troubadour could be a intimate fringe venue, with weekly poetry readings, squashy sofas, and a paddock out back for the puppets to graze happily in.

Something tells me that's not the case.

The Troubadour looms over the Lidl next door. It's red neon lettering is stark in the darkess.

There's a gap in the fencing and I pause, wondering how I'm supposed to get from here, over there.

This must be a common reaction because a security person comes forward. "Shaolin?" she asks.

Yup. I'm here to see The Soul of Shaolin. Because I'm too good for War Horse. Don't want to be crying in some tacky barn conversion in Wembley. So I'm going to be watching some fake-monks instead. And it's not like I haven't even see the real monks. Because I totally have. But here we are. Turning up my nose at puppets while I go watch kung fu.

"We're just checking bags," she goes on, pretending not to notice the tiny breakdown I'm having there on the pavement. "And then you can go in."

I open my bag for her and she has a look inside. The contents being deemed safe, and therefore acceptable, she steps back to let me pass.

"Go to the curtains," she says. "The box office is on the opposite side."

It takes me crossing the courtyard and reaching the massive doorway for me to realise that yes, she really did say curtains, and yes, they really are there. The heavy fabric hangs over the loading-dock sized opening. Presumably to keep the heat in without having the need to result to anything as prosaic as actual doors.

Inside, there, on the opposite wall, is the promised box office. On the far side is the bar, backlit by a series of rainbow panels. Above my head, red and pink neons zig-zag their way across the ceiling.

But, despite the fancy lighting design, I can't help but feel that this place looks really familiar. And no, it's not what you're thinking. It isn't like the other Troubadour at all. The ceilings are three times as high. The foyer four times as big. It's like being inside an aircraft hanger, or... oh gawd. That's it. It reminds me of the factory my parents ran when I was a kid. It has those same grey corrugated walls. The same huge doorways, large enough to back a lorry against. The only thing missing is the smell of melting plastic from the injection moulding machines.

Oh well.

I guess factory-chic is cool. Just probably not for those people whose after-school activities involved fishing plastic brush handles out of the vast cooling tanks for hours on end before falling asleep on the office sofa while waiting for a parent to remember to take you home.

Still, that's my baggage. Not yours.

I press on to the box office.

Both of the box officers are busy so I hang back, waiting my turn.

As one transaction finishes, the box officer looks over and smiles at me. But the customer she's just finished with isn't ready to move on. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, sorting through all the sections to make sure it's worthy of receiving his tickets.

I attempt a step forward, but he doesn't even glance up at me. He's too busy making sure his receipts are in order.

The box officer's smile is beginning to look a little strained.

Fuck it. I'm going in.

I march my way over to the counter, turning my shoulder to indicate to this counter-hoarder that he is no longer welcome here, and he should take his wallet-business elsewhere.

Miracle of miracles, it works.

The box officer and I grin at each other.

"Hi!" I say, feeling very powerful right now. "The surname's Smiles." See, didn't even phrase it as a question. That's how much of gawd-damn commanding I am.

She doesn't even ask my postcode before handing over my ticket. It's clear I know what ticket I'm picking up, and I won't be delayed by nonsense questions.

That business accomplished, I'm off to see what else I can find happening on the factory floor.

There's the bar, of course, but I have no interest in that.

My attention is entirely on what's happening on the other side of the bar.

There seems to be some sort of staircase-action going on. A series of steps, leading precisely nowhere, with the sole apparent purpose of providing seating. It's doing its job marvellously well. Every level is packed with bottoms.

Next to the steps, is a merch desk. I wander over to have a look what's on offer. Troubadour umbrellas and totes nestle up against fans and silk scarves, presumably containing some connection to the Shaolin lot. No programmes though. I double-check the price list. I can buy Buddha beads in three different size variations, but nothing containing a cast list. What they do have, however, is a sign stating that there'll be a post-show photo op for those that drop their coin at the merch desk.

I am a little bit tempted by the fans, but for the price they're charging I could be well on my way to getting one of the fancy Duvelleroy ones I love so much. So I pass.

"The house is now open for this evening's performance of The Soul of Shaolin," comes a voice over the sound system.

I check the time. Too early to go in. But I also seem to have exhausted the possibilities in the foyer.

I walk around, checking I haven't missed anything.

Above the bar is a panel pointing the way to Door One. I get out my ticket. I need door two. There doesn't seem to be a matching panel for door two. The place where I'd expect there to be a panel advertising the whereabouts of door two, is blank. Broken.

I go around anyway, trusting the chain of pointing neon light on the back way to guide me.

Sure enough, there's a door around here. Door 2.

There's a big group here, all fussing about with their tickets.

I hang back waiting for them to finish.

Unfortunately, door two is positioned right on route to the toilets, and I find myself getting bashed by every parent rushing past with a desperate child.

"We're got door one," says a woman walking past, staring at her ticket. "Door one? This is door two."

Another woman comes the other way, also staring at her ticket. "Entrance door two," she reads. "Two, two, two."

They both look up just in time to avoid a collision.

When it's my turn to get my ticket checked, I step forward, feeling a little bit frazzled.

"Thanks for waiting!" says the ticket checker, pointing her scanner at my barcode. "Oh dear," she mutters to herself. "The scanner isn't working."

"It's always my tickets," I tell her. I think they sense my hatred of technology and my fear of the impending takeover of e-tickets. The barcodes squirm under my death-glares.

"Really?" she laughs. "No, it's not you."

Rude. I can totally make a barcode squirm if I want to.

"I'll tell the next person who has trouble you said that. 'It's the scanner. Not my ticket.'"

She laughs again. "There we go," she says triumphantly as the scanner beeps. "Thanks for waiting. Enjoy the show!"

And in I go, Through a twisting corridor made of black curtains, and up a flight of stairs, into the auditorium.

"V14?" I say to the usher waiting at the top.

"Lovely," she says. "It's that way. Up the stairs."

I follow the direction she's pointing, go up the stairs, and look at the seat numbers. They'll all in the forties and escalating.

I don't think that’s right.

Back down the stairs, I pass the usher and go the other way. Ah. That's better. The numbers are all in the teens over here.

There's a film playing on the screen up on the stage. Something about the difference between western and Chinese art. I watch it suspiciously, wondering if I've booked myself into some sort of propaganda performance. The martial arts answer to Shen Yun.

Film finished, a pre-show announcement rings out. No filming. No flash-photography.

The audience takes this as a challenge, and immediately switch their phones to the camera app as soon as the cast comes out.

Most of them remember to turn the flash off.

"Is this a movie?" pipes up the small boy sitting behind me.

"Just watch," says the small boy's dad, getting his phone out.

"Yes, but is it like a movie?"

If it is, it's not quite Crouching Tiger.

The fight scenes may be impressive, but the storytelling comes via a series of long paragraphs, projected onto the back of the stage between scenes, thereby making the actual performance entirely redundant.

The auditorium shakes as people move about, crashing down the stairs as they take loo breaks, or make more permanent bids for escape. It's hard to tell.

A man sitting a few rows ahead of me lifts his phone and starts filming.

An usher sprints into action, standing sentinel at the end of the row and flashing his torch at the ground a few times. it doesn't work.

"Excuse me," he says to the person sitting in front of me, squeezing into that row and making his way along. But by the time he gets there, the phone has been lowered. The usher stands, and then a second later, makes his way back out again.

As soon as he's gone, the phone is raised once more.

The interval rolls around soon enough. The projection changes to tell us that merch is available from the foyer, and they'll be a post-show photo-op for anyone who cares to buy themselves some Buddha beads.

Back out in the foyer, people walk around clutching flyers in lieu of a programme. I don't see anyone with buying beads.

"This evening's performance of The Soul of Shaolin will begin in five minutes. Filming and flash photography are strictly prohibited inside the auditorium."

We head back inside.

"Good evening and welcome once again," comes a voice over the sound system. "May we remind you that filming and flash photography are strictly prohibited inside the auditorium."

The auditorium is a sea of phone screens as act two starts.

To be fair, if you're going to focus on banning the flash, it does rather suggest that everything else is totally fine.

I sit back and watch the rest of the not-unimpressive action, clapping dutifully in between acts.

As we get to the end, a message flashes across the backdrop.

They are not actors, it informs us. They just love kung fu.

That's sweet. Does kinda make me wonder why they insisted on presenting a narrative work rather than just a kung fu showcase, but still: sweet.

"Photo sessions right here if you want to line up!" directs an usher on the way out.

Two small, robed figures, stand, ready to pose.

There's quite a queue already.

Maybe I should have bought a fan after all...

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.

Getting Your Hot Chocolate Rations

“We need to get as many people in as possible,” shouts the TFLer on the Metropolitan line platform at Farringdon. 

Those still outside the doors make a push to get in, but nothing’s moving.

We’re tightly packed and there isn’t any more room. Not that this stops the TFLer at Great Portland Street from having a go.

“Move right down!” he orders. “There’s no need to be shy.” 

We’ve long moved past shyness inside this train. If we get any closer, Mettie is going to be the surprise popular baby name of 2020. 

As we leave central London far behind us, the carriage begins to empty. I even get a seat. 

Eventually, we roll into Ickenham. A little frazzled, but still in one piece. Just about. 

It’s dark out here. And freezing. I feel like I’ve spent at least a year underground, so I’m just glad to be outside and breathing in fresh air. 

According to Citymapper I need to take the Car Park exit out and loop around to get to my theatre for the evening. 

There’s a sign on the wall in the station. “Pedestrians using this route as a short cut do so at their own risk.” With that soothing thought in mind, I make my way out to the empty car park, clutching my bag and eyeing up all the shadows with a suspicious glare.

It’s only when I’m slipping past the barriers that I realise that the risk they were referring to was probably getting run over, and not scary murders, as I had, of course, presumed.  

Oh well. Either way, I’ve got out alive. 

Only problem, I’m now being sent down a lane. And it’s even darker than the car park, if that’s possible. There are definitely murderers lurking down here. 

I hurry along, peering through the gloom, trying to make sense of where I am. Is this even London anymore? It doesn’t look like London. London isn’t as empty as this. 

Just as I manage to convince myself that I’m being led to some abandoned farmhouse full of dead bodies, I see a sign. 

“Compass Theatre,” it says. As if that was a perfectly normal thing to state in the absolute middle of nowhere. 

Beyond the sign is another car park. I look around. At the far end is a low building. It’s full of light and warmth.  

Just as I’m wondering where the box office is, I spot a sign saying “Box Office,” above the door. 

The Compass Theatre is coming in strong on the signage angle. I like it. 

In I go. And follow even more signs until I reach the box office desk at the far side. 

“Hello!” says the box officer on duty as I approach. I give him my surname and he has a look at the ticket pile. “On the top!” he says, picking up the first one. “All waiting for you.” 

Nice. 

Ticket acquired, I wander off to see what else the Compass has on offer. 

Lots of lots of poster space, by the looks of it. The walls are covered with a mosaic of frames, advertising all the upcoming shows, bar prices, volunteering opportunities, panto auditions, and… a notice stating that due to staff sickness, wardrobe is not on offer that evening. 

Oh dear.

I hope the cast took their costumes home with them last night. 

Around the corner, there’s a cafe. People sit around flicking through programmes. I realise I need to get me one of those. I look around. There’s a table nearby, covered with an odd arrangement of items which suggest there's a raffle going on, and, more importantly, a small pile of red booklets. 

“Are you selling programmes?” I ask one of the young women standing nearby. 

“Yup! I am.” 

“How much are they?” 

“Three pounds!” she answers cheerfully. 

“Oh, I have a fiver for once,” I say as I wrestle with the zip on my purse. Thanks to the good programme seller at the Duchess Theatre for that. “Do you have change?” 

She does. 

Transaction done, I find an empty table to sit at and watch as people investigate the prize-items and decide if they want to invest in a raffle ticket. 

An announcement comes over the sound system. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Compass Theatre. This evening’s performance will begin in ten minutes. This house is now open if you’d like to take your seats.” 

My fingers are already behind trying to transcribe the voice, but he keeps on going, taking about phones and whatnot, ending with a dark warning about not taking photos in the auditorium. I freeze. Ah. That’s going to be tricky. I hate it when theatres don’t allow photography inside the actual theatre. Got my back right up when The Old Vic banned me from doing it when I was there in August. Seriously irritating. Let’s just hope that the Compass doesn’t have as many ushers inside the auditorium so I can grab a sneaky shot. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” comes the voice again. “The performance will begin in five minutes. Please take your seats.” 

Well, looks like it’s time to analyse the staffing situation. 

Back round towards the box office, and then off through a door on the side. Two ushers wait within a small vestibule, ready to check tickets. 

“C12?” I ask, showing my ticket to the nearest one. “Yup, just through there and…” she motions with her hand, first one way then the other. “Left? Right? … left? Sorry, I don’t know which way the seats go.” 

I laugh. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out.” 

If I can’t work out seat numbers by now, my 235th theatre of the year, well, there really is no hope for me now, is there? 

I round the seating block, go through the nearest aisle and climb the steps to row C, then squint at the seat numbers. 

Fifteen… fourteen… thirteen… twelve. There. That was easy enough. 

The gentleman in seat eleven grabs the armrests and starts to heave himself up. 

“Don’t worry,” I say, lifting my hand to stop him. “I’m right next to you.” 

Jacket off. Glasses on. Phone out.  

I look around. There are no ushers in here. 

Right, a few quick photos of the space. 

Stage. Seats. Side-angle. Done. 

I can relax now. 

The band are already in place, in a makeshift pit, cordoned off behind a low black wall. 

Over on the far side, some bits of paper have been stuck on it. 

“Toilets,” “Bar,” “Exit,” they say in turn, with arrows pointing the way. 

That is some commitment to signage you got there, Compass Theatre. No space is exempt from direction-duty, not even the temporary orchestra pit. 

Okay, one more photo. Just for the signage. 

Now I’m done. 

The man sitting next to me twists around in his seat to look behind him. "I was so worried they wouldn't have enough people in tonight," he says. "It's such a shame that people don't support the community."

I slink down in my own seat. Not only am I very much not a member of this community, I'm barely a member of my own. I don't think I've ever seen an amdram performance in Finchley. And by 'think,' I mean: 'know.' Because I have definitely never seen an amdram performance in Finchley.

More people come on. A lady stops to touch the pianist on the shoulder as she passes. He jumps and looks round. A second later they're hugging and chatting and it's all rather adorable. 

A voice comes over the sound system.

We're about to begin and we need to switch our phones off. After all, this musical we're seeing tonight, is set in the second world war. "When they didn't have mobile phones. So switch them to silent so they don't think bombs are going off."

A woman in my row stabs wildly at her phone screen. "I don't know what I'm doing!" she hisses to her companion.

As the curtain rises, the frantic woman manages to disarm the phone and stow it safely away in her bag.  

We begin. Radio Times. A musical set in the Criterion Theatre, where I was, only last week. Except, instead of a slick comedy about a bank robbery (called, if I remember correctly: A Comedy About a Bank Robbery), we have the recording of a radio show, being broadcast live by the BBC as air raid sirens rage all around.

I certainly feel like I'm stuck in a bomb shelter, because it's freezing in here.

My shivering only stops long enough to half-jump out of my seat as my neighbour calls out: "More!" with the final notes of I took My Harp to a Party. "Go on, Marty!”

I manage to make it through to the interval without catching hypothermia, and rush out towards the cafe in search of warmth.

The usher on the door is holding an air raid hat.

"Seemed a good idea at the time," she says, looking at it bleakly.

"There are real ones upstairs you know," says someone else.

I don't hear her reply, but I imagine they are strong words referring him to the signs stating, quite clearly, that wardrobe is closed today.

I reclaim my seat by the window. It's no good. It's just as cold in here.

A young woman goes over to the vending machine to get herself a hot drink.

"Ergh," she growls, loud enough for people to look round. "I want a hot chocolate but it's out and there's no change!"

"What's the problem?" asks a bloke standing nearby, and she explains the situation again.

"Just ask for your money back," he says.

"There's no change!" She's sounding really quite stressed now. I can't blame her. To let yourself believe that you were seconds away from a hot chocolate on a cold night, and then to have that dream snatched away from you... I'd be raging.

"You have to speak to the cafe staff."

"That's really bad, isn't it?" steps in another bloke. He gives the machine a sneak-attack with his fist. It doesn't help.

A staff member appears. "What did you want?" he asks.

"A hot chocolate," she tells him.

"Yeah, there's none," he says, preparing to walk away.

"Yeah," says the girl. "But it's got my money."

"Nothing I can do about that." He pauses. "Oh... Hang on. I'll get someone."

He goes.

An announcement calling us back to our seats plays over the sound system but there's no way I'm moving when there's a whole three-act production playing out in the cafe.

As the audience makes it's way back to the auditorium, I am glued to my seat.

A key has been found. The machine is open.

"Right, how do I do this now?" says the machine opener, staring at the innards within.

"Is there any hot chocolate?" asks the girl, still intent on living her dream. "Like, at the back?"

"Nah," he says, cracking open the money bit. "Can you identify your fifty pee?"

"It's alright," says the girl, realising the dream is over. "I'll take that one."

And so I am released back the auditorium for the second act.

The usher is now wearing her air raid helmet, standing to attention by the wall and looking hella cute with it.

I snuggle back into my jacket, looking slightly less cute, but at least I'm warm.

The BBC gang are now on air. With spangly costumes and off-colour jokes flying all over the place. But the script hasn't been signed off and the only thing that will keep the plug from being pulled is a heartfelt speech aimed at the audience across the pond.

With the assurance that this speech as very definitely got the Americans on side and in the war, we are sent out into the night.

Pulling my jacket close around me I run across the road, through the car park, back into the station, and onto the platform... where I have to wait a full half-hour for a train. I huddle in the waiting room, close to a radiator that isn't even trying.

I get back to Hammersmith past midnight. And immediately make myself a hot chocolate.

I hope that girl got one too.

Missing: Dog

“You didn’t walk here, did you?” asks Allison, looking slightly scandalised as I rock up outside the Duchess Theatre.

I admit that I did, indeed, walk here. It’s not that far. I can do it in thirty-five minutes if I’m speedy. Not that I was speedy. I had a stop off to make along the way. A couple of stop-offs. And a full on detour.

Still, I’m here. And only a little bit damp around the edges.

“How are you not completely soaked?”

“I’m magic,” I tell her, truthfully. “Shall we go in?”

We join the queue to get our bags checked.

The bag checker isn’t paying attention.

He’s watching a woman getting run over with a security wand.

“Fuck’s sake!” she shouts, pushing her way back through the queue, shoving me out the way as she escapes.

“What was that?” asks Allison.

“She wanted to buy a ticket, but there aren’t any. I think. She went through security for nothing.”

“Oh dear!”

Allison makes it through the bag check and moves on to get wanded.

I hold my breath as the bag checker prods at the contents of my bag, hoping he doesn’t find the bag I have sitting, hidden, at the bottom.

He moves aside my squashed up cardigan, but if the presence of a plastic carrier bag from Chinatown Bakery is noted, he doesn’t say anything, waving me through.

At the next checkpoint I raise my arms out, just like I’d had to do over at the Palace. I can’t imagine The Play That Goes Wrong being as big a target as Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, but here we are, getting the same treatment.

“How are you?” asks the security officer as he runs the wand over my arms.

“I’m great!” I say, way too enthusiastically for a raining Tuesday evening.

“Very good! That’s what I like to hear.”

And with that, I’m waved inside.

Right. Better pick up those tickets.

I give my name at the box office and the box officer pulls them out from the ticket box. “Dress circle, bars, and toilets through there,” he says, pointing the way.

“Hang on,” I tell Allison. I just need to get a photo of the box office.

“For the blog!” she says, only slightly rolling her eyes.

But while I’m there, I spot a programme seller and soon I’m in a queue to buy one.

“I’ll have to give you a pile of fives,” says the programme seller, spotting the twenty-pound note in my hand.

“Fives are always welcome,” I tell him. And they are. There aren’t many cash machines around here that you can convince to give you one. Except… no. I’m not telling you that. I don’t want you all hogging my five-pound note supply.

“Here’s one,” he says, placing it in my palm. “And ten, and fifteen, and your programme.”

Lovely. “Lovely.”

Time to find Allison.

“Tickets please!” asks the ticket checker. I hand them over and he neatly tears the two of them apart, stacks them up, folds the tab on the end one way, then the other, then rips it off, before letting us past.

We’re in the bar.

It’s a very small bar.

We find an unoccupied corner and I get my phone out. “Sorry,” I say, as I open up a draft email and start making notes.

“That’s really impressive,” says Allison, very sweetly.

“Yeah, well, I do try not to misquote people. I really do,” I say as I transcribe all the interactions I’ve had in the past five minutes.

Auto-correct does it’s absolute worst to help me along, but whatever. I’ll be able to figure it all out in the morning.

“Right,” I say, finishing up. “Shall we go in?”

“Look!” says Allison, distracted by something over my shoulder. “They have mini champagne bottles!”

They do have mini champagne bottles. Over there. On the side of the bar. They are very cute.

“Don’t worry. I have something for you. A treat.”

When I make detours, it is always in the pursuit of food.

We head up the stairs, and emerge in the dress circle.

I show our tickets to the usher and she directs us back. All the back to the back.

I may be the sort of theatre companion to sneak in food for a friend, but I ain’t paying good money for tickets. If you go to the theatre with me, you’ll sit in the back, and you’ll like it.

“We appear to have lost a dog for tonight’s show,” calls out a man in theatre blacks. “Can you check under your seats?”

Allison squeals. She loves dogs.

We find our seats.

The two blokes sitting on the end of the row have a lot of bags. At least four rucksacks between the two of them.

I try to step over them, but I'm a shortie. I don't have long legs. Every embarrassing moment from the past nine months flashes before my eyes as I stumble over them. I don't want to die. Not here. I can't be a theatre ghost at The Play That Goes Wrong. They'd have me exorcised. There's no room for that nonsense in a farce.

But just before I tumble into the orchestra pit, I recover my footing.

Thank the theatre gods. I'm alive.

I need to sit down. And like, have some sugar. My nerves are shot.

"Do you want a taiyaki?" I ask Allison.

"What is that?"

So I explain. It's a fish. Made of pancake. With stuff inside.

"Do you like red bean?"

It always pays to ask. Don't want someone getting a nasty surprise.

She does. Thank goodness.

"That's insane," says Allison as she pulls the pancake fish out of its paper bag.

But we're soon tearing off their tails and munching happily as the search for the missing dog rages around us.

"Can you check under your seats?" calls out the man in theatre blacks.

"Everyone?" someone calls back.

"Everyone?! There's only about fifteen people in here!" He leaps up the stairs towards the back of the circle. "If you see a bulldog, do not approach him," he warns. "If you see him, let me know. Say 'yes, Trevor'."

"Yes, Trevor," repeats the fifteen people in the audience, very dutifully.

The house begins to fill up. Fifteen people turn to twenty. Then thirty. Until there are only polka dota of empty spaces around us.

An usher tries to guide an old couple to their seats.

"Where?" says the lady.

The usher points.

They're in our row.

We get up to let them pass.

The man goes first, inching his way down the row.

I yelp. Loudly. He's trodden right on my foot.

He leaps off, muttering and complaining and self-soothing without ever turning around to apologise.
I sit back down, wriggling my toes to bring them back to life.

These seats are dangerous.

And it's not just the seats.

Something is going on down there, on the stage.

They seem to be having trouble with the set.

The door on set won't stay closed. Trevor goes over to sort it out, but it's no good. It keeps opening.

Not only that, but the mantlepiece is broken all to shit.

A stage manager tries to fix it, but it's no good.

She disappears into the audience, mantlepiece in hand, returning a few seconds later with a bloke from the audience holding up the other end.

She directs him to hold the mantlepiece level while she gets to work securing it back over the fireplace.
And then she disappears.

The bloke looks around.

He's on stage. All by himself.

The audience giggles.

Bit mean. He was only trying to help out. This crew is having a bad day. And like, isn't that the point of theatre - a group of people coming together to make art happen? Sometimes, making art happen means being dragged on stage to hold up a bit of set with the stage manager disappears to find a hammer.

Trevor is back. "What are you doing on stage?" he asks.

"Just helping out," says the bloke with an audible shrug.

Right then. Might as well make use of him. He's pointed towards a broom and asked to sweep up. The handle falls away in his hand.

Oh dear. They're really not having a good day up there.

No sweeping then.

Perhaps he can carry over the tool box.

He tries to lift it, but it's too heavy.

With a sigh, the stage manager goes over and picks it up easily. Honestly, stage managers are superheroes. They really are.

Still, that's a kick in the teeth for male pride right there.

"Just talk amongst yourselves," they urge us. The duct tape has come out. There's nothing that can't be fixed with the help of a roll of duct tape. This mantlepiece is getting fixed no matter what.

But it's no good. The director comes out to introduce things, and apologise. He has a lot to apologise for. But, here's the thing. The play has got to start. Even if they don't have a mantlepiece. Or a dog. Or a Duran Duran CD.

We're off.

And bless them. They do their best. They really do. Although I suspect they could have done with a touch more rehearsal time.

They gamily press on though, working stoicly even though the audience keeps on laughing everytime things don't quite come off.

Although, someone should really tell Trevor that he's totally on display at his tech desk. And he really shouldn't be playing on his phone during the show.

We make it through to the interval.

I get out some more taiyaki. These ones filled with Nutella. I think we deserve it after all that.

Sugar levels now flying, I have a look through the programme. It's a nice programme. They have headshots for the backstage crew which is just lovely. Except... I flick back and forth over the biographies. There's someone missing.

Winston. The dog.

No wonder he ran off. I would too if the bloody stage manager, who, let us be real here, can't keep track of a functional hammer, gets one, and I, the owner of hearts and minds alike, get nothing. Not even a line credit. Absolutely not, I'd be out that door and running over to the Equity offices on St Martin's Lane as fast as my four paws could carry me.

"This theatre is weird," says Allison, staring at the ceiling. "It looks unfinished."

I look around. It is rather bare for a West End theatre. All plain walls and white paint. Not a single curly bit to be found.

"Look, there's a dome but no chandelier."

She's right. Above our heads is a very shallow looking dome. Painted gold as some vague concession to decoration, but with a strange texture that makes me think the plasterer wasn't very good at his job.

The second act starts and it looks like Winston isn't the only one to have had enough. The director, who is also the inspector, has had it with our nonsense. "You are a bad audience," he snaps, when some arse in the stalls decides they want to play panto and call things out. "And you know what makes a bad audience? Terrible people."

I am filled with shame. Here we are, watching a very tasteful murder mystery, and all we can do is giggle as the cast struggle gamely on through all the many... many... many mishaps.

An unusual amount of mishaps.

An almost unbelievable amount of mishaps.

I don't think I've spent so long set to wince-mode in my life.

It's almost like... nah. I'm just being silly. Things happen in plays. That's the nature of live performance. It's why we love it so much.

And like, I'm not sure how long this play has been running, but I presume it is still in previews. There's some details that need to be sorted out. A set that needs a little... extra work. Let's hope they have time to fix things up before the press get their claws in.

And print some programme slips to credit Winston the dog.

The director steps forward. I presume to give us an apology, but no, he's pitching the group's other plays.

"Is that a standing ovation or are you just getting up to leave?" he asks as someone in the stalls makes a break for it.

He recovers quickly though to tell us about the shows. The Comedy About a Bank Robbery over at the Criterion, which gets a cheer. And two new ones we probably haven't seen already. Expect, no, there's someone in the front row hasalready been. "Bet you haven't seen this next one because it isn't even on yet,’ says the director, before launching into his script about Magic Goes Wrong.

"Got the tickets!" comes the reply from the front row.

The director deflates. "I'll just go then."

I think we should all just go.

It's been an exhausting night.

And the cast and crew have a lot of work ahead of them.

On the way to the tube station, I keep an eye out for any dogs taking themselves for a walk. But no. The West End is surprisingly canine free on a Tuesday night.

I hope they find him soon.

Another one bites the dust

All around me books are being lowered. Commuters lean forwards in their seats.

Somewhere in this carriage buskers are playing Despacito and we all want to see who’s responsible for this crime against Latin pop. I don't think I'm alone in the belief that if you’re going to be playing a song on the tube, you should probably memorise the lyrics first.

The tube driver agrees with me.

An announcement is played.

“There are beggars and buskers operating on this train. Please do not encourage their presence by supporting them.”

Bit harsh.

People immediately start reaching into their wallets to hand over their change.

That’ll teach TFL.

The lethologic musicians hop out at the next stop and rush around to the next carriage.

I can still hear them playing their intermittently acoustic cover version as I change platforms at Cannon Street.

The rest of my journey is quiet.

Not many people making the journey to Deptford tonight.

They haven’t heard the call of the Albany.

It feels weird being back already. After a gap of six years, I’m now on my second visit of the week. This time though, I’m hitting the main house.

As I round the corner into Douglas Way and find myself grinning.

Not because of the theatre. Sorry, Albs. I find it hard to get sentimental about old workplaces. I’m smiling because it’s dark. Properly dark. For months I’ve been taking my exterior theatre photos in blazing sunshine, and now, finally, the nights are closing in and I don’t have to spend my evenings leaping between the shadows and feverously rubbing sunscreen into every exposed inch of my skin.

Seriously, it’s not easy maintain this maggot-pale colouring I’ve got going on.

I burn. I freckle.

I mean, it’s fine. No one said being Goth was easy. But it’s nearly October, and it’s my time. Sweaters and shawls and coats and velvet: here I come.

And bless the Albany. They have the heating on. I can feel it as soon as I walk through the door. The whoosh of heavy dry air that feels so eternally comforting, and proving that I don’t mind heat, as long as it is entirely artificial.

I join the queue at the box office.

“Is that Maxine?” asks the box officer, turning over her list of names to find me on the back. She grabs a ruler, and a highlighter, and runs a very straight line through my entry.

“Let me just stamp you,” she says once her highlighting is complete.

I offer her my hand, and she places the stamp up on the back of my wrist.

Strange location to pick, but I respect her artistic choices in stamp placement.

My unspecified ringed planet is red this time. To designate the main house, I presume. We wouldn’t want audience members sneaking their way between the studio and stage space without having been properly stamped and accounted for.

“Can I take one of these?” I say, pointing to a pile of freesheets on the desk.

“Oh!” she says, surprised. “Yes, of course.” She grabs one and hands it to me.

The house isn’t open, and I don't really fancy standing out here in the foyer, so I go over to the cafe to see what’s happening in there.

The answer is: not a lot.

People sit quietly at tables, sipping on drinks and waiting.

I find a table all to myself and join in the quiet time.

“Die! Die! Die! OLD PEOPLE DIE!” someone reads dramatically from their freesheet.

I can’t blame her. It’s a really great title. Quite possible the best one of the marathon. Even better than Kill Climate Deniers over at the Pleasance.

I take off my jacket and scarf. It's warm in here.

I’m feeling real cosy right now, and am fully prepared to join the climate deniers this winter if it means we get the have the heating on blast until March.

“Ladies and gentleman!” says a front of houser. “The house is now open for Die! Die! Die…!” he falters, and we all laugh. “Old… people… die.”

Great title. Seriously, fucking great.

There’s a scrapping of chairs as we all stagger to our feet and make our way back into the foyer, and through the doors into the main house, holding up our hands, or wrists, to show the usher that we have been marked by the red stamp.

Through the door and we get a nice view of the undercarriage of the seating.

We walk around, through the arched corridor that circles the space, until we find our way to the front.

The central block of seating is filling up fast.

I pick my way across the stage, leaping over a wire, powering a floor light, with previously unknown grace.

I pick a seat in the third row, as is my preference. But on the aisle, as a concession to this being quite a large space, even if half the stage is taken up by a mountain of seating tonight.

As the audience shifts around, selecting their seats, I get out my phone and try to finish a blog post.

But a gentle stirring around the room makes me look up.

Over there, behind the stage area, peeking from behind a curtain, are two performers. Jon Haynes and David Woods. They’re stepping out. Or at least, I think they are.

They’re moving so slowly, it’s hard to tell what their motivation is.

A few solo giggles sound off around the audience, unsure how to take this snail-like state. Are we supposed to be laughing? Is this a comedy? It’s hard to tell.

The pair cling onto each other as they lower themselves down the treacherous step from walkway to stage.

Then they begin the long walk to their set: a table, and two chairs.

It takes minutes. Multiple ones.

I’m beginning to get a bit bored.

The pair dribble and fart and talk over one another for the next sixty minutes or so, sometimes managing a smile-worthy line, but mostly shuffling around interminably.

I can’t help but think of that Caryl Churchill play where an entire act was dedicated to the dressing and undressing of an elderly man in a care home.

A work of genius to many. Painfully dull to me.

A few people at that onr took the Here We Go title literally, and walked out when it became clear that this cycle of costume changes was not going to end any time soon.

Over here in the Albany, a couple sitting in the second row are having the same feelings, and slip and out with a clatter of flipping seats.

With a loud bang, the show eventually ends, and we are free to leave.

And pay.

I’d forgotten about that.

Another Pay-What-Makes-You-Happy show.

I pull out my purse and have a look at what’s going on in there. Not a lot. No notes at all. I prod at the coins, trying to count up the non-coppers. It doesn’t take long.

But as we make out way round the walkway and out the auditorium door, I spot an usher holding some fancy looking equipment.

“Have you got the card reader?” I ask him.

He has.

He prods away at a few buttons on his phone. “Sorry,” he says. “Sometimes it doesn’t like to connect.”

“I can try to find some cash…?” I say, knowing full well I only have three quid on me at best.

“No, I can try and get it working for you,” he says, but he doesn’t sound all that convinced.

“Are you sure?”

“Ummm.”

I dither, not knowing what to do.

But then he smiles. Success. “Yeah! There we go. How much would you like to donate.”

“Ten?” I suggest, finding myself wanting his approval. Ten is the suggested donation. It says so on the signs. I gave ten to the other show. The one in the studio.

He doesn’t say anything though, just gives me the card reader all set up and ready, and let’s me do my thing.

Payment accomplished I make my way back to Deptford station.

“I was kinda expecting the handbag to come out at the end,” says a woman also waiting on the platform. “It was still under the rug and he just stood on it.”

That’s true. I had forgotten all about the handbag.

“It was deliberate, no doubt,” she finishes.

I’m sure it was. Just because it didn’t do the business for me, doesn’t mean there wasn’t one hell of a business plan going on.

And anyway, still a fucking great title.

Sollocks to all that

I race across the courtyard of Questors just as the house announcement plays over the tannoy.

"Just to let you know, we have two intervals this evening."

I stop, my hand on the door. Two intervals? That's... a lot of intervals. Double the amount of intervals that I was expecting. Acceptable for an opera. Or even a ballet. But a play for a play, two intervals is way too many intervals. An unreasonable number of intervals, one might say. What play was I seeing again? I slip through the door and check my phone, bringing up the confirmation email just in case I'd accidentally booked for the amdram premiere of Angels in America. But nope. That's not it.

Noel Coward's Private Lives.

Not exactly a two-interval kind of play.

The set changes better be hella impressive, that's all I'm saying.

I join the queue for the box office.

It's a big one.

The box office and the queue.

This isn't just amdram, this is Questors amdram. Everything is on a larger scale here.

Someone needs to remind the person standing behind me of that. She's tutting and sighing so much I fear she may crack her tongue.

But it's my turn now, so I don't have time to worry about that.

I give my surname to the box officer behind the window.

"This is for Private Lives?" she asks.

It is. I've already hit up the studio. I'm here for the main house tonight.

She digs around in the correct ticket box and hands me the ticket.

Right then. Time to explore this joint.

Most people seem to be heading towards the bar, but I follow the signs for the theatre, into a stairwell.

As I dart to one side to avoid a group coming the other way, I spot something on the wall.

A sign.

"Please DO NOT," the DO NOT is underlined here, "put props chairs / tables & scenery etc in front of the radiators as it stops them from working."

In front of the radiator are five poles used to hold queuing ropes, and a table.

We're all going to freeze tonight.

Halfway up the stairs, I spot a giant bell.

I really hope that's the theatre bell and not some prop from an old production of Titanic or something.

It is truly magnificent.

There's also some kind of interesting chandelier action going on back here. A starburst of white and blue lights. As I try to take a photo, I spot something. Another sign.

"Judi Dench Playhouse."

I had forgotten that's what the main house was called around here.

This isn't just amdram, this is... Oh wait. I've already done that joke. It's true though.

At the top of the stairs I find myself in some sort of cafe area. It's filled with displays from previous shows, with loads of extravagant looking costumes.

Bunting crisscrosses across the ceiling, all cut from playtexts. Priestly and Shakespeare and Gilbert.

I do enjoy bunting, but custom bunting... that's very... well, it's very Questors now, isn't it?

Time to go in.

I show my ticket to the ticket checker and get waved inside.

The seats hug around the thrust stage in a horseshoe shape.

I traipse my way down the stairs towards the second row, and dump my jacket on my chair.

My neighbour arrives. He's holding something. Something very interesting looking.

"Are there programmes?" I ask him.

"Yeah, there's a guy by the door flogging them for a pound."

"Makes a change from the West End," says my other neighbour.

I leave them bonding over the extortionate cost of West End programmes and race back up the stairs towards the door.

Turns out the ticket checker had programmes all along. I ask for one, give him a pound coin, and skip my way back to my seat to see what my one pound has bought me.

It's a photocopier jobbie, but there's no harm in that. There's a nice little intro from the director, with lots of neat facts about the history of the play. Apparently Coward wrote it in only three days, which, to be frank, I think is a bit rude. All these talented people, showing everyone else up. It's really not on. Some people need to learn when to rein themselves in. Take a break. Have a lie in. Give the rest of us a chance to catch up.

"I found out there's no cloakroom," says my neighbour. "So it's coats on the floor."

"Eh," I say, bundling my own jacket into a ball and shoving it under. "My coat's been through worse."

He laughs at that, as he folds his own jacket and places it neatly under his chair.

I really should take better care of stuff.

"We're within spitting distance," he continues, now that the coat issue has been dealt with.

I look at him in horror. "Well, I hope you don't try!" I say. Honestly, I expected better from a man who folds his coat.

"No!" he says, equally horrified, pointing to the empty stage. "No, I meant them. When they get enthusiastic."

I flap my hand in the direction of the people sitting in the front row. "We have a barrier," I tell him.

There isn't much to say after that. We both go back to reading our programmes.

A few minutes later, the show starts.

And, oh my gawd, I know it isn't cool to admit it, but I fucking love Noel Coward, I really do.

There's something about his plays that makes ever actor in them so fucking attractive. Like, seriously. It is impossible to be dull-looking while saying those words. I don't know what the science is, but there is no denying it. Something about the cut-glass accents, and the effortless snark. It just does it for me.

I escape from my seat and go and stand in the cafe to have a break for all the glamourous shenanigans.

A group gather to trade their favourite badly-remembered lines.

"Do you love me? Do you really love me? Kiss me! Three times."

"Late forties! He's sixty-one!"

Not quite as Noel Coward intended, but they're having fun.

"This isn't a bar," says someone walking past. "This is a cafe," he adds with a sneer. "Shall we go downstairs?"

Another guy has a similar idea, but found on a better way of doing things.

"I sent the wife down to get me a beer," he tells his friend.

His wife reappears just in time for the five-minute call, struggling to keep hold of a glass, two bottles, and a packet of crisps. "I wish you'd come down with me next time," she says with a sigh as the crisps fall from her arms.

He doesn't reply. He's too busy opening his beer.

I go back inside. The only marital breakdowns I like witnessing are ones accompanied by cutting words and secret pied-a-terres in Paris.

My other neighbour is reading aloud an article about the Naga Munchetty thing from his phone. "A single member of the public complained," he says with an outraged sigh.

"Probably another racist," says his friend.

I mean... probably.

A couple sitting behind me are discussing the diversity of the audience. "In the West End you get lots of different people. Young people, you know?"

"There's quite a mix here tonight..." comes the reply.

This is met by silence.

The only mix I'm seeing is different variations on the salt and pepper hair-scheme going on.

Yeah, there's a couple of young-un's over on the far side. But we are in serious middle-aged white people territory here.

But, as some who is pretty darn white and not exactly far away from middle age myself, I can't complain.

After all, we are at a Noel Coward play. The patron saint of the white middles.

By the time we get to the second interval, I am in love with everyone, and overcome with a need to loll around in silk pyjamas and dropping bon mots in between sips of brandy.

But when I emerge back into the cafe, there's no brandy on offer. Just crisps and people saying "sollocks" to each other and laughing in increasingly high pitched tones with each repetition. Which isn't in keeping with the meaning of the word, considering our characters have been using it to declare a cease-fire in their exchanges. But okay.

Third act, and there's been some shifting around of the furniture. The piano has made it's way to the other side of the stage, so like, I guess an interval was needed. Or a pause anyway. A pause would have been better.

The brandy has been replaced by a soda fountain, which you just know is going to be sprayed at someone. The real question is who.

Turns out it's Victor. Poor sod. He should have called sollocks.

Lots of applause, then it's time to go.

As I cross the courtyard I remember something and turn around to check.

Hey! Look at that!

They fixed their neons since the last time I was here.

That's nice.

Paper Free Finchley

I'm in Finchley!

I'm not sure that deserved an exclamation mark.

I can tell by your expression that you don't either.

"Don't you live in Finchley?" I can very almost hear you say. And it's true. I do. "But aren't you staying in Hammersmith at the moment?” Yeah. Yeah, that's also true. "So, doesn't that mean that you trekked all the way across London tonight? I kinda feel that you might have planned this a bit bett-"

Okay, you shut up now. I don't have to listen to that kind of talk. This is my blog, and I won't be insulted by someone who hasn't had to deal with the spreadsheet nightmares that have been my life over the past nine months. So: hush.

I'm in Finchley and I am going to the fucking artsdepot. Again. Because they have two theatres and that's just fucking great.

I may be a little overtired. And damp.

After dropping some stuff off at home, I hurry through the rain, down Ballards Lane and up to Tally Hoe, pass the Lidl, turn onto Nether Street and speed through the automatic glass doors.

The box office is just inside and I wait until someone is free, tucking my soaked umbrella under my arm.

"Hi," I say, as chirpily as I can. This is my local theatre after all. I don't want to get a reputation. "The surname's Smiles?"

The box officer looks at me blankly.

"For Still I Rise?" I try. Just in case there's more than one show going on tonight.

"Did you get the text message?" he asks.

"Umm..."

I vaguely remember seeing something pop up on my phone from artsdepot, but I figured it was a reminder or something like that.

Oh gawd. Is this another Harrow Arts Centre situation? Have I just had another show cancel on me? In the same damn week? I'm really not sure I can take it.

I get out my phone and look for it.

"Sorry, I never check these things," I tell him.

"Don't worry," he says, sounding pretty chill for a man who is right now ruining my entire marathon. "It should have a link in it."

"Umm..."

"It would have been about four o'clock," he says.

I find it. "Got it," I say, scrolling down and yes, there is a link. I click it. A QR code fills my screen. An e-ticket. Ew.

I turn my screen around to show him.

"There you go! We're trialling something new. Just use that."

Ergh. I thought I was safe. I was only here a few months ago, and we were still well into paper ticket territory. And now this.

It's happening more and more. I visit once and everything is fine. I go to a box office and they give me a real ticket. Happiness reigns. And then when I return, it's all this digital shit.

2019 is turning into the year of the e-ticket.

It's completely disgusting and I don't approve.

And even worse: text messages.

With links.

I didn't sign up for this.

In fact, I did the opposite of signing up for this.

When booking this ticket I specifically selected the "Leave my tickets at the box office (no charge)" option. Because, just in case I wasn't clear on the matter, I like paper tickets. Scrap that: I love paper tickets. Almost as much as I hate e-tickets. If I wanted an e-ticket, I would have chosen the print at home option. But I don't. So I didn't.

So really, what the artsdepot is doing here, is not only ignoring my wishes, but also misselling. They tell me I can pick up from box office, and then, instead, give me this inferior product and smile while doing it.

I'm raging.

I should complain. I should go full-fucking-Karen and demand to speak to a manager. I should...

"Thanks," I say, heading off towards the escalator.

This is my local theatre after all. I might bump into these people in the big Tescos.

And I do like the escalator.

I step on and let its gentle movement soothe me as I sail up to the next floor.

The cafe is up here, with all its multi-coloured chairs and big friendly signage.

I'd kinda had it in mind that I wanted to see what happened in the gallery, but it's still closed, so I find a seat and try to dry off.

The tables fill up around me as people clutch onto cups full of hot drinks.

A few minutes later, there's an announcement over the tannoy. "Could all ticket holders for this evening's performance of Still I Rise head to the Pentland Theatre on level three. The performance will begin in three minutes."

I check the time.

It's 7.25pm.

I see you Tannoy Lady, rushing us for no reason.

Three minutes, my arse.

But, I go all the same. Following that big friendly signage up a flight of stairs to level three.

There's a great big landing up here, with more seating.

I look at my e-ticket. It says I need the Right Door, which is the one closest to the stairs.

There's two ticket checkers standing there, and one of them beeps me in.

"A1?" I ask the usher inside.

She directs me towards the end of the front row. Which, I mean, I figured. But I thought it polite to ask all the same.

I take a few steps in that directon, and then stop.

I've noticed something.

The theatre isn't full, but every single person in here is clutching a sheet of paper.

Freesheets. They've got freesheets. I want a freesheet.

I'll be damned if I'm not walking out of here with at least one bit of paper.

I double back. "Is there a cast sheet?" I ask the usher.

"Programme?" she asks.

"Yeah?" I mean, I guess.

She goes off to check, returning a half-minute later with one of the ticket checkers from the door. She shakes her head. "No programme."

Oh. Okay.

I'm tired and wet and can't be bothered to press it.

I go off to my seat.

Front row. Right at the end.

And there's someone sitting in it.

"Are you A1?" I ask the young girl sitting in A1, knowing full well that she is not A1, because I am A1, and there can't be two of us.

She looks at me, her eyes full of innocence and embarrasment.

"No," she admits. "I'm in A5. But I can move...? Or you can have A5…?"

I look down the row. A2 and 3 are also occupied by young girls. A4 is an older lady. I see how it is. She wants to sit with her friends. Well, I can't say I've never done that before.

"I'm very happy to sit in A5," I tell her, starting to make my way down the row.

"It's a better seat anyway!" calls her friend after me.

She's not wrong. It's almost in the middle of the row.

Front row centre. It doesn't get much better than that.

I dump my back and try to flip down my new seat, but it catches on something.

"Sorry, I'm spreading out," says the lady in A4, pulling her coat free, putting her bag on her lap and... tucking away her freesheet.

"Sorry," I say quickly before she has the chance to put it away. "Can I be very rude and take a picture of your cast sheet? They've run out..."

"Oh! Oh no. What a shame," she says. And she holds it out for me to take my photo.

That done, I look around.

It's a nice space in here. A very large stage. Surprisingly large.

It's my first time in this space and I'd always wondered why they did so much dance here. Now I know. It's this big-arse stage.

A woman slips into the row behind me, slightly out of breath.

"Sorry," she says to her friend as she plonks herself down. "I did that classic dance thing, that industry thing, of not looking up what we're seeing."

Me too, love. Me too.

I think I probably read the copy at one point, but honestly, I can't remember a thing.

I consider looking up my photo of the freesheet, but I can hear something moving beside the stage and I think we're about to begin.

Sure enough, the lights are dimming.

Five dancers. All women.

Crinolined costumes give way to softer fair.

It's strong and vulnerable and aggressive and tender.

They lift each other up, both literally and metaphorically. One holds another, cradling her head, stopping her from sinking to the ground. They won't let each other fail.

One dancer appears silhouetted against a light, wearing only shorts and a cropped top. She moves like a bodybuilder. Like a fighter. Unafraid to show off her strength. Her muscles.

She reminds me of Arya. From Game of Thrones. A water dancer no longer in need of a sword.

"Wow, that was something," says my neighbour as our applause chases the dancers off stage.

"They were warriors!" I say.

"Yes!"

"Amazing to see a company of female dancers be so strong," I add.

"Yes," she agrees. "Very powerful. I'm glad I came."

"Me too. I'm ready to take on the world now."

I grab my bag and make for the exit.

"Is that it?" someone asks, sounding unsure.

"I think so. It was an hour," comes the equally unsure reply.

Not many people are leaving.

Most are still in their seats.

I hesitate. Maybe there really is more.

But the ushers on the door are handing out flyers. That's a send-off, not an interval activity.

I grab one, thinking this is the only bit of paper I'm going to get my hands on this evening.

Back down the stairs, through the cafe and towards the escalator which has now reversed its direction to take us downstairs.

Outside, a small group have gathered to have a smoke.

"Is it half time?" one asks.

"No, it's actually finished," says another. "I heard the ushers..."

I pull my jacket close around me and make a rush towards the tube station, dropping the flyer in the first recycling bin I see.

Playing the Fairfield

Four o'clock and I get a notification on my phone.

An email.

"Dear Valued Customer," it starts. My heart sinks. Being valued as a customer is never a good sign. "We regret to inform you that, due to an unexpected emergency, the theatre company have had to cancel the event 'The Hound of the Baskervilles' for this evening."

Blah blah blah. "Apologies." Blah blah blah. "Refund." Blah blah blah. "Don't hesitate to call."

This is so not what I need right now.

It's taken me nine months to find a theatre show in the Elliot Hall of Harrow Arts Centre. Nine months. And they don't have any other ones listed on their website. That's... a big problem. A big big problem.

A problem so big I can't even think about it right now.

I have to deal with the smaller issue right now. Smaller, but more urgent.

Which is, what the hell am I going to do with myself tonight?

I could give myself the evening off. Go back to Hammersmith. Wash my hair. Get myself some quality cat cuddles. But did I just mention that we're nine months into this marathon? Yeah. Now, I don't know what your maths skills are. But I, having a friggin' GCSE in it, so I can tell you that there are only three months left of this challenge. And I still have around 70 theatres to get to. I can't afford to be spending my Wednesday nights on self-care.

With an outpouring of more swearwords than my poor coworkers should ever have to listen to, I bring up my spreadsheet and start rearranging. Moving Saturday's theatre trip to Friday, I free up Saturday for a theatre I wasn't meant to hit until November. Which means, if I've worked this all out right, if I go to Sunday tonight, I can actually give myself a day off. A real one. During the weekend.

Whoa. It's been a while since I had one of those.

Right. Looks like I'm going to Fairfields Halls tonight. I better get that booked in.

I go onto their website, find the show, curse at the popup, scroll around desperatly trying to find the book button, select my ticket (front row for fifteen quid? Yes please) and then go to check out, get rid of another popup (pre-show dining? Fuck offfff).

I'm feeling more than a little pleased with myself, right up until the website decides to give me the spinning circle of death as I attempt to lookup my address.

I leave it a few minutes. Get on with some work. And then go back.

It's still spinning.

Huh.

Okay then. Close the window and start again.

Select ticket (front row, fifteen quid), put it in my basket, type in address... nope. It's not having it.

I scroll down the page and click the Continue button.

Right, now it's looking for an address.

I select it.

And then there's nothing to click.

It's just me, staring at a broken website, asking it to sell me a ticket.

I think I now know why they still have fifteen quid, front row seats, available less than four hours before curtain up.

I can't give up though. There's a free Sunday at stake here.

I try again.

Nope. Not happening.

Fuck's sake.

Two-hundred-and-thirty theatres in and I think I can safely say I've found the absolute worst theatre website.

Okay. Don't panic.

Worst comes to worst, I can call them. Box office people are lovely. That is totally a thing I can do.

If it were not for my crippling social anxiety.

I try again. But this time I'm sneaky. I make an account first, then double back to pick up the contents of my basket. Ha! It works. Success. You won't get one over me, you stupid website. I'm going to see your show and you can't stop me.

Two hours later, and I'm off to Croydon.

At least I know where I'm going now.

And, now that trams aren't a surprise to me anymore, I'm not even a little bit scared of them.

Well, maybe a little bit.

Okay, I pelt it across the road even when there isn't a mechanical monster in sight.

But I'm here now. At Fairfield Halls.

It's a lot bigger than I expected, looming over the road. Towering over building works.

Long windows running along the front give the place the air of a car showroom. We are on Park Lane after all. Just, you know, the other one.

I find myself in a narrow lobby. There's more doors up ahead, through which I can see the main foyer. All high ceilings and bright lights. There's a queue going on through there, for what looks like the press desk.

That's not me.

Over on the other side there's a reception desk. That looks more my speed. I head over.

A man stops me.

"Are you here for the Ashcroft?" he asks, and I wonder if that's the new Bentley model.

"Yes?" I reply, having absoletly no idea what he's talking about but feeling that is probably the right answer all the same.

"You can pick up your tickets just through there," he says, pointing through the next set of doors to the press desk.

I mean... okay.

I thank him and make my way over to the doors.

"Are you here for the play?" asks the woman standing on duty there.

I am.

"Can I see your ticket?" she asks.

"I'm collecting." Or at least, I'm trying to.

"Are you a guest?"

Honestly, people like to talk about gatekeeping in the arts, but I never knew they meant it so literally.

"Ah, well, you'll need to go over there," she says, pointing back the way I had come. To the reception.

"That's the box office?" I ask, just to double-check.

Yup. That's the box office.

Right then. Back I go. To the fucking reception desk.

Honestly, I'm about two seconds away from declaring Croydon part of Yorkshire so I can get the hell out of here.

"You're picking up from over here?" asks the guy from before as he sees me coming back.

"Yeah, I'm not swish enough for the press desk," I tell him.

"Ah! Well, you never know," he says, sounding embarrassed. "You can never be sure."

"Hi," I say to one of the ladies on reception, trying very hard to keep the exasperation out of my voice. "The surname's Smiles?"

She looks at me blankely.

"I'm collecting a ticket?" I press on, really not wanting to be sent somewhere else again.

"Is it a guest ticket?" she asks, sounding confused.

No, it's not a fucking guest ticket. Oh my gawwwd…

"No," I say, doing my best to keep the growing annoyance from my voice. "I bought it. With money."

"Excellent!" she says. "Do you have your confirmation email?”

I almost laugh. I'm literally the only person in this building who is a legitimate paying customer, and yet I still need to dredge out the confirmation email. I bring it up on my phone and hand it to her.

"Can you fetch it?" she asks the other lady on the desk.

I watch as the other box officer goes through the doors... and towards the press desk.

I am not a violent person, but seriously, I am about to slap everyone within a twenty-metre radius soon if... holy shit. I recognise that person. Over there. By the press desk. Picking up their tickets. Someone who used to work at my work. I now works here. At Fairfied.

As soon as I get my ticket, I rush over.

"I spied you!" I say as our eyes meet.

I shouldn't be so surprised to see her. But somehow it's always weird bumping into old coworkers.

We stand around, getting in everyone's way as I give all the gossip from the office.

"Are you here for your blog?" she asks.

Ummm.

"Yeah," I admit. "I wasn't supposed to be, but the show I was supposed to be seeing was cancelled and..." Yeah, I did it. I vented. All about the gawd-awful website.

"Oh dear," she says sympathetically. "Do you want to get a drink?"

I don't, but I keep her company as she gets one and waits for her friend to arrive and tells me all about the refurbishment.

And then it's time to go in.

Two ushers stand by the doors to the theatre wearing matching green polo necks. They smile at everyone passing through. It's opening night and everyone looks super excited about it.

I slip through and go up to the programme seller.

"Do you have change for ten pounds?" I ask.

"I'll have to give you coins though," he said, bringing out a plastic bag stuffed full of pound coins.

"That's fine," I say, trying not to show my excitement.

I'm not going to go on again about how much I love pound coins, but, you know I love pound coins.

The programme he hands me is massive. Almost as big as the ones at BIG.

Oversized programmes must be a thing at show-adaptations that no one asked for, because tonight we're seeing Angela's Ashes. The musical. Which, I don't mind admitting to you, I'm a little concerned about.

But I've got my programme, there's no turning back now. Not after everything I've been through to get here. Oh wait, wrong door. I turn back and hurry further down the corridor until I find door two. There we go. I'm in.

Front row here I come.

Except, it's not quite the front row. There are two rows ahead, but there's no one sitting in them, so they don't count.

The auditorium is large. The stage big. But it's not nearly as shiny and grand as the foyer spaces.

There's a sort of dinginess and worn-in feeling which I think is better suited to a theatre than glossy newness.

There's an announcement welcoming us all to the performance. "Please identify your nearest exit," it advises us, which is not the most comforting thing to be told to do before a show.

The stage lights go up.

The cast starts to sing.

I don't know what the first song is called, but I'm willing to bet that it’s ‘Angela's Ashes.’

I'm wincing so hard I think I might dislocate something.

But it doesn't last long, because after the initial cringe-fest, it's actually rather good.

I'm enjoying myself.

Well, 'enjoying' is probably the wrong word to talk about a misery memoir, but you get what I mean.

In the interval, I head back out. The usher on the door grins. "See you in twenty minutes!" he says.

I find a convenient pillar to lean against and edit my Red Hedgehog blogpost. I am like, stupidly behind at the moment. Four show weekends are not my friend.

"Ice cream, madam?" asks the usher on the door as I go back in.

"No, thanks." It's not really an ice cream kind of show. It wouldn't feel appropriate to be digging into a mint choc chip while there are babies howling for a bottle of milk.

But it's okay. I know our Frank is going to make it out okay. After all, he wrote the memoir. And the sequel (which is excellent by the way, although I'd bet you already know that because literally everyone in the world has read it).

But then we have to end with that Angela's Ashes song, so, when it time came for the standing ovation, I could not participate.

As I leave, everyone peels off to one side.

Looks like there's some sort of afterparty going on.

I leave them too it and head out into the tram-filled streets, thanking the theatre gods that that's me done with Croydon for the year.

The Blog post about a Theatre Trip

Two things in life are guaranteed.

No, not death and taxes. Keep up.

Theatre ghosts disprove the first and Jacob Rees-Mogg the second.

No, the two things are: the steps around the Eros statue in Piccadilly Circus will always be decorated with French teenagers. And no matter where you are in the West End, there will always be a b-boy battle raging nearby.

And so it is now. The French teenagers perch on the soaking wet steps, watching the hip hop dancers take it in turns to show off their moves. And I’m waiting outside the Criterion Theatre for my friend Allison to get here.

It was only a couple of days ago that I was telling you how the two of us met, back at the Albany theatre. Now look at us. Taking on the West End. One of us unwell and the other with soaking wet feet after stepping in a massive puddle this morning.

I’ll leave it to you to work out which is which.

“Shall we go in?” I say after sharing updates on the state of our immune systems and damp boots.

We get our bags checked and go inside.

“Collecting?” I ask to the usher in the foyer.

She waves us off towards the box office just inside the door.

I give my name to the lady behind the counter, trying very hard not to get distracted by the decor of this place.

I’ve raved about some impressively ornate West End theatres on this marathon, but I think we might have finally found a winner for the competition that I didn’t even know was raging inside my head until this moment.

There are mirrors. And tiles. And painted ceilings. And mouldings. And gilding. And…

“What’s the first name?” asks the box officer.

“Maxine,” I tell her.

She frowns, staring at the tickets in her hand.

“Do you have another name you might have booked under?”

Do I? I don’t think so. I’ve been Maxine for a long-arse time.

“Is there another name that TodayTix might have used? From a Facebook account or something?”

Now, here’s the thing. I can’t use my real name on Facebook. Because Facebook won’t let me. But it’s my surname it has a problem with. Not my first name. So that can’t be it.

I shrug. I don’t know what to tell her.

“Oh!” says the box officer, something clicking. “I see! They dropped the X. ‘Ma’. I was just thinking there can’t be another ‘Smiles’ in the house tonight.”

She laughs, the relief visible on her face.

I can’t blame her. It wouldn’t do at all to have multiple Smileses in the same building. At all. That’s a recipe for disaster right there.

Tickets acquired, I tell Allison to hang on while I tuck myself into a corner and try to take a photo of the foyer. It’s no good. There are too many people now and they are all getting in the way, cluttering up my image with their faces.

Honestly. This whole theatre-blogging malarkey is harder than it looks.

I give up, and we show our tickets to the usher on foyer duty.

“The upper circle is one floor down,” she tells are. “And the bar and toilets are two floors down.”

An underground theatre. Well, that’s fun.

Down the stairs we go, me pausing on every single step to get a photo of the fancy tiles on the walls.

Allison, bless her, waits patiently. As a semi-regular marathon guest, she’s been through all this before.

One floor down, we find a programme seller.

“Hang on,” I tell Allison. “I need to get a programme.”

“You need a programme.”

“I do need a programme!”

See? I told you this woman gets it.

“Can I get a programme?” I ask the programme seller.

I can. They’re four pounds.

“Do you have change for a tenner?”

He does.

“No, wait!” I say, with way too much passion. I think I might have frightened the poor guy. “I have a fiver.”

Allison coos appreciatively and the programme seller gives me an: “Amazing!”

Let it not be said that the entertainment I provide in real life matches the exact level you find on this blog.

“Do you want a drink?” I ask Allison. She properly deserves one.

We head down another level.

“Is it this way?” Allison asks. “No… Err…”

“What are you looking for?” asks an usher standing in the doorway to the Stalls.

“The Bar… oh I see it!”

A sign points us down a corridor and around the corner. And we end up in… well, this is not what I was expecting.

“This is not what I was expecting,” I say to Allison as we walk into a plain white room, with an equally plain bar tucked into the corner.

“No!” agrees Allison.

There’s no one here. It’s empty.

We keep on walking.

And then it appears. A long posing table runs down the centre of the room. Huge tiled panels that look like stained glass windows stretch up to the ceiling. And over there, the real deal glows, illuminated by backlights. And then uderneath them: the bar.

Found it.

"What are you getting?" asks Allison.

"Gin," I say. Because, I mean. Obviously.

"They have Sipsmith!" she says, looking at the menu on the wall.

They do have Sipsmith. They have fancy Sipsmith.

"Shall we try the Sloe Gin and the Lemon Drizzle?" I suggest.

So we do, finding a place on the long table and trying each of the drinks until we settle which one we want. Sloe for Allison. Drizzle for me.

"We should probably go up," I say.

We take our drinks back up the stairs towards the upper circle.

"Oh, wow," I say as we step into the auditorium. "Look at this place! It's so cute!"

"It's nice!" agrees Allison.

"I've never been here before."

"Nor have I."

"That's the problem with long-running shows. It doesn't give you a chance to see the theatre. What was in here before? Do you remember?"

Allison thinks. "The 39 Steps? Or… 49 Steps?" she suggests.

That sounds right. The thirty-nine version anyway. I didn’t know there was a sequel. "Did you see that one?"

She shakes her head.

Yeah, I missed it too.

Well, the Criterion must have found a niche doing farcical thrillers, because we are here to see The Comedy About A Bank Robbery. Which, something tells me, is a comedy about a bank robbery.

We're in the front row of the circle. "Do you want the aisle?" I ask Allison. Front rows aren't exactly known for their legroom, and Allison is a good deal taller than me.

But when we sit down, we find that it ain't all that bad. When Allison offers to stow my massive bag next to her, I don't feel the need to take her up on that. There's plenty of room.

I get out the programme.

"I just want to check something," I say. "There was something I saw downstairs and I didn't know if it was a joke ot not."

"What?"

"There was a cast change notice. 'The Role of Everyone Else will be played by Mr Tom Hopcroft.'"

I mean, this is the company that's been bringing us all the upside-down, misspelt, and generally messed up tube ads for their sister play: The Play That Goes Wrong, for half a decade. I can't see any of their signage now without thinking there must be a gag in there somewhere.

But no. There it is. "Everyone Else," I read in the cast list.

The show begins. We're in gaol.

Guards are with a prisoner in a cell. It's all very punny. I haven't heard this much cringey wordplay since the "Fork Handles" skit.

Oh dear.

Allison is never going to forgive me for dragging her out of her sickbed on a wet and miserable day to watch... whatever this is.

But soon we're breaking out, the dire jokes transform, and things are moving.

I'm giggling. I can't help myself.

I look over at Allison and, thank the theatre gods, she's laughing too.

I think we might be okay.

By the time we get to the interval, I have a great big grin plastered on my face.

The West End is serving me well this week. I'm getting a core workout from all this laughing. Who needs the gym when we've got theatre, eh?

"Where do you want to go?" asks Allison.

"Shall we just stand somewhere?" I say, not really wanting to make the treck down to the bar.

We go to the back of the circle, where there is plenty of room, and even a railing to lean against.

"What shall we do with these?" I ask, looking around for a bin to place my empty cup into. There's nothing. No ushers with plastic bags. They're probably waiting on the door.

I tuck it away under the railing. Out of the way.

It really is a cute little theatre. Small, but not cramped.

The walls are a soft salmon, matching the plush upholstery on the seats, and the thick curtains swagged over the boxes. A chandelier hangs from the dome in the ceiling. Everything is trimmed with gold. It’s like sitting inside a Barbara Cartland novel.

Anyway, it's time for act two, and we got a diamond to steal. And Mr Tom Hopcroft, in his covering-role of 'Everyone Else' has a hell of a lot of characters to play. Including, but not limited to, having a three-way fistfight with himself. And I honestly don't think I'm going to make it to the end of this show without peeing myself with laughter.

I'm not the only one in difficulty.

Down in the stalls a woman is screaming with joy. Every outburst of her's sending giggling echoes around the audience, like a ripple-effect of guffaws. A second wave of hilarity after every joke.

I don't think I've ever heard anyone enjoy a show quite so much.

It's frickin' adorable.

During the curtain call, she gets her whoop on, and the cast all peer into the stalls trying to see the person responsible.

Before we leave, we're reminded that Mischief Theatre is taking over the West End. Three theatres they're in at the moment. Three. No wonder they have a cartoon at the back of the programme charting their rise to theatre domination.

Their mothers must be so proud.

I wonder what that feels like.

Ghost Conversion

If ever there was a time for Leicester Square to just... not, you'd think it would be a Monday night at the arse end of summer. It's damp. It's dark. And yet, here we all are. Wandering around looking bleakly at the street performers and trying to convince ourselves that being robbed by primary coloured monsters in the M&M store counts as a good night out. Well, not me. Obviously. And not you, either. I'm talking about them. The tourists. But, you know, as our era of globalisation comes to a close, I'm feeling very inclusive. Because, after all, aren't we all travellers in this journey we call life? I mean, whatever. I'm outside the Prince of Wales theatre, and it looks like the TKTS desk has been doing a roaring Book of Mormon trade this morning because the HOUSE FULL sign is out front and the queue is stretching all the way down Oxendon Street. There's even a couple of people lining up for returns, which is sweet. Thankfully I don't have to join them. I've got my ticket all sorted.

I follow the queue down the pavement until I reach the end, where there is a black-coated front of houser on duty.

“Collecting?” she asks.

I confirm that I am indeed collecting.

“Lovely,” she says. “On the left.”

I join the line she’s pointing at, and begin the long shuffle forward. The queue over on the right peels away into a side door for people who already have their tickets on hand.

Me, I drudge my way around the corner and towards the front door.

Ushers monitor us from beneath the shadow of their huge black umbrellas.

“If you already have your tickets, head on inside!” they call. “If you’re collecting, join the end of this queue.”

“I need to collect my tickets…?” someone asks.

“Yup, join this queue on the left please.”

There’s a musician in front of me. At least, I’m guessing that’s the reason he’s holding a trumpet case.

The security guard on the door looks at it.

“What’s in there?” she asks as he holds it up.

He tells her.

“Nothing else?”

Nope. Nothing else.

She waves him past.

She’s clearly never been a fan of old mobster movies.

My turn. I open my bag for her and she pokes around, stirring up my scarf with her finger. I too get waved in.

“How many?” the man on the door asks me.

“One,” I tell him.

Yup. All on my lonesome on a Monday night.

“This way,” he says, moving the barrier to let me through.

Well now… I could get used to this. Preferential treatment for the loners. I like it.

Now in the foyer, I go over to the counter and find a free box officer. “Smiles?” I tell him. “S. M. I-“

“What was that?”

It is rather loud in here with three box officers all trying to get tickets out at the same time.

“Smiles?” I try again. “S. M. I. L. E. S.”

He nods. He’s got it this time.

A short riffle through the ticket box later and he’s got it.

I don’t even have time to tear off the receipt bit before I need to hand it over to the ticket checker. I’ll give the Prince of Wales this, they see a full house and they throw the entire staff rota at it. I haven’t managed a single step yet without being within bleeting distance of a front of houser.

“You’re going through door D for Delta,” says the ticket checker, unfolding the ream and looking it over. “All the way upstairs.”

That’s good. I need the exercise.

I follow his directions, aiming myself for the staircase.

The walls are covered with shiny silver paper. The carpet is burnt umber.

One floor up and I’m in a bar. Is it a bar? No. There’s no one selling drinks.

Just tables and chairs and banquettes. Sitting for the sake of sitting. With no one trying to get money out of you.

Now this is luxury.

I consider taking one of the seats next to the window. It looks like there’s a pretty impressive view down Coventry Street. But my investigation must continue.

I keep climbing.

And find a programme seller.

That’s good. I was worried I'd walk out of here with cash still in my wallet.

“Do you have change for a tenner?” I ask her.

“I do!” She sounds genuinely excited about this. “Let’s do a swap,” she says as I offer her my note.

I take the fiver and fifty pee from her hands. They wobble dangerously on my palm as I grapple with the ten-pound note.

“Ooo!” she says as I nearly lose the coin to the umber carpet.

“Don’t worry. I got it,” I tell her, recovering, and we manage to finish the exchange without loss of change.

I follow the signs for door D, up past more metallic wallpaper, through another seating area, past old show posters from the thirties, and here I am. Right at the top.

I emerge into the auditorium at the back of the circle.

It’s a dramatic space, with a huge stage and the seating drawn out in long lines. No horseshoe shaping or slip action going on here. Apart from a few boxes we are all going to be sitting front on.

“Row K?” says the usher on the door as he looks at my ticket. “Just over here,” he says, leading me to my row and waving me into it.

The seats are nice. Comfy. No armrests though, as I soon realise when the young man sitting next to me sticks his elbow right into my ribs.

I fear I may have similar troubles on the other side as the girl sat there wrestles her way out of a glossy leather jacket. But once her escape has been secured, and the jacket carefully arranged over her lap, her elbows are tucked in closely, only moving when a box of Maltesers is passed over from a friend. Which I’m sure we can forgive. I would never deny someone a Malteser.

The lights dim, and the tiny statuette topping the extravagantly decorated proscenium arch twists and turns, playing a trumpet.

That’s cool.

The rest of the audience clearly thinks so too. Even after all these years, Book of Mormon still manages to elicit a “Wooo!” of excitement as it kicks off.

Across the way, down by the boxes, I spot someone dressed in a smart white shirt and black tie. He may even have been wearing a name badge.

Is that an elder?

As the curtain rises, and the Latter Day Saints get their hellos on, I keep an eye on him.

If the Price of Wales theatre is getting their ushers dressed to theme then I am so here for it.

But when the latecomers are led in, I can see full well that the ushers are not wearing white shirts and black ties. They are wearing striped shirts and no ties. More prison chain-gang then clean-cut missionaries.

When I look back, the white shirt is gone.

Perhaps he was my first sighting of a theatre ghost.

A Mormon theatre ghost.

I sure hope so. You never hear about Mormon ghosts. It sure feels like the Catholics have a monopoly on the supernatural, and frankly, it’s 2019 and we all need to move on and update the ectoplasm.

I don’t get much of a chance to think about this, because Book of Mormon is packed full of absolute bangers and I can’t concentrate on anything as measly as potential theatre ghosts. It’d take a confirmed sighting to get me out of this seat.

No surprises there though. The Latter Day Saints know how to party. Let me tell you, you haven't lived until you've been to a totally sober ceilidh in the back room of a temple with a bunch of eighteen-year-old Mormons. Seriously. It's quite the experience.

And before you get all weirded out, I was also eighteen at the time. And I was totally in love with the sweetest Mormon boy ever. He was... so tall. And had all these stories about his mission in Africa. None of them involved frogs though. I just want to clarify that.

Funnily enough, it didn't go anywhere. He's married now. Lives in Utah.

Anyway, where was I? 

Shit. Yes. The Prince of Wales theatre.

It's the interval now.

We mostly stay in our seats. Presumably, all dreaming about the Mormon boys we used to know.

The elbowy dude next to me goes to get an icecream and makes full use of his angles when he returns to eat it.

Feeling a bit bruised, both emotionally and in the more literal sense, we make it to act two.

This show opened eight years ago. Which makes me feel hella old because I got myself into the final dress rehearsal for this production. Anyway, it's interesting to see how long-running shows keep themselves relevant. There's usually a dance move lifted straight from a TikTok video so everyone can pretend they're down with the kids, and yup - there it is. Dabbing. Literally the only place you see that move anymore is in West End theatres. Kinda adorable.

The No Deal Brexit joke gets a roar of laughter, but whether it's from approval or sheer terror, I can't tell.

A fullsome round of applause later, it's time to leave.

"No Deal Brexit!" says someone to his friend as we make our way back down the silver stairs. "He called her No Deal Brexit? Did you catch that?"

"He called her lots of silly things.”

"Yeah, but No Deal Brexit!"

"That was funny."

"It was funny."

It was funny.

And now I get to go home and sup on some sweet sweet caffeine, sure in the knowledge that no Scary Mormon Hell dreams await me tonight.

Gone to the Dogs

There's a paper bag lying, discarded, on the ground in Douglas Way. It must have had something very tasty in it not that long ago because three pigeons are now circling it, pecking at it, like overworked nurses attempting to impose hospital corners on a beanbag.

One of them, the one I've been thinking of as the leader of this trio, manages to get its head inside. A second later, its back out again, bringing a half-eaten cookie with it.

The other pigeons stare at this manna from carb heaven in wonder. No manky crumbs for them this evening. They be feasting like kings.

But the dinner party don't last long, because across the road, three dogs have just finished their run around the park and are barrelling through.

One runs on ahead, scattering pigeons in his wake.

It's owner calls after it. "Don't forget, the only reason I have you is because no one else wanted you."

And with that grade A guide to parenting left hanging in the air, they disappear.

It's probably time for me to go to. I've been hanging around for fifteen minutes now. It's not that I'm avoiding going inside. It's just that I don't want to, and I'm putting it off.

I mean, it's not like I don't already know what the Albany is like. I've been here before. Fucking hell, I worked here. This is where I got my first real job in theatre. Well, the first one that didn't have 'intern' in the title. It's where I met Allison, who is now a marathon-semi-regular, so, you know, that's a lasting friendship if ever there was one. And it's all because of this place. This low, long, building, sat squat on the edge of the square that once a week houses Deptford Market. That was probably a great idea at the time. Placing the arts right in the middle of the community and all that. But the bars now criss-crossing all the ground-floor windows doesn't really scream neighbourhood integration.

I head through the automatic doors and into the foyer, trying to get a sense of what’s changed in all the years that have passed since I was last here.

The truth is, not a lot.

The tables and chairs in the cafe look like they’ve been upgraded, but other than that, everything looks exactly the same as I left it. The box office is still taking up that same corner. The counter top as pink as ever. I would even swear that bunting hasn’t shifted since 2013.

It’s all rather comforting really.

I join the queue, and when I get to the front, give my name to the box officer.

“Maxine? That’s one,” she says, using a ruler to draw a very straight line through my name. She flips open the lid to a large ink pad, and inks up a small stamp.

“There you go,” she says, applying it to the back of my hand. “It’ll be there in the Studio. Doors will open in about five minutes.”

Plenty of time for me to inspect my new artwork.

It’s a planet. Or at least I think it’s a planet. One with rings, so that’s Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune, or Uranus, if my GCSE Double Science Award serves me well. I can’t narrow it down any further. I flunked out of A-level Physics.

Someone hands me a brochure. It’s for a festival of aging. Not a subject I try to think of all that often. I have a flick through though, checking the venue names to see if there’s anything I missed.

I skip over the page advertising the 48-hour durational work set in an old people’s home. I am absolutely not doing that. No way. Not even for the marathon. I have logged it as an experience, not theatre, and I will not hear another word about it.

A queue starts to build over by the door. Lots of young, cool, looking people with oversized clothing and pastel hair. It’s all very Deptford.

I hang back. I’m not all that fussed about being first through the door. The Studio is a small space. And with a one-man show about dementia, I’m not sure I actually want to be all that close to the front.

Some keen sort rattles the door. It’s locked.

A passing front of houser spins on his heel “Oh! Hang on!” he says, rushing back towards the door. “We’ll open in about five minutes!”

True to his word, about five minutes later, the doors are opened and we begin to file ourselves in.

We all twist our hands round to show him the planets stamped on the back, looking like we’re all throwing the mimsiest gang-sign going.

It gets us in though, and we make our way down the long, dark, corridor which winds its way around the back of the main theatre space, towards the far end of the building.

A sign on the door reminds us that this show is a Pay-What-Makes-You-Happy. “Please donate what you can into the buckets,” it tells us. “We also accept card payments. Suggested amount £10 (or £5 concessions) but feel free to donate less or more!”

Buckets. That’s interesting. I’ve only seen it done with envelopes before.

I go in.

It’s dark in here. Really dark.

The brick walls are painted black and the windows are hidden behind black-out curtains. The only speck of colour are the iron beams painted red.

Chairs have been set up in right-angled banks, fencing off a corner for the stage.

I slip into the end of the third row. There’s no rake, of course. But I can just about catch a glimpse of our performer, sat behind a drum kit.

There has to be a rule, worked out in secret meetings between artists and programmers, that spaces with bad-sightlines should only be filled with sitting-down performers. You don’t catch actors sitting down on big stages with raked seating. Oh no. But as soon as you’re in a titchy studio space, there they are, getting to grips with their floor-work skills.

At least Antosh Wojcik has the excuse of an instrument that needs playing.

The doors close.

The lights dim

We begin.

Drumming away, Wojcik tells us a story. He was in a band. A metal band. He was the drummer. Or one of the drummers. There were two drummers. And that’s it. That was the whole band. Two boys on drums.

He imagines the two of them, in a home together, old and grey, remembering nothing but the music. The pounding of the drum solos.

And he thinks of his own grandfather. Lost in a maze of missing connections as dementia takes hold.

As he plays, ratting out that beat, Wojcik’s fluffy hair bounces in time with the music. He pushes back his long fringe in between sections. Which, I don’t mind telling you, is all very pleasing and troubling in equal measure. As he talks about a deep and personal grief, I want nothing more than to plate up some freshly made biscuits, pinch his cheek, and tell him it will all be alright.

You know, some women out there, they go all maternal in the face of troubled young men. Me? I’ve leapt straight into grandmothering.

Just as I’m about to start searching in my bag for a hairbrush to offer him, a man sitting two rows ahead leans across, lifting his arm over the seat next to him, and blocking my view.

Now I can only hear the words as they tumble over the beat, without the distraction of floppy hair and sad eyes.

Honestly, it’s a relief.

We make it through to the end, with no further issues other than a few broken hearts.

Wojcik leaves us behind in the studio, not returning despite our applause going on without him.

Eventually, the lights come back on and we struggle to our feet.

Everyone is very quiet as we make for the door, and back down the corridor.

At the end, a front of houser stands waiting for us, bucket in hand.

I pull out a note, and slip it into the slim gap at the top.

Not too sure about this method, to be honest. I think I prefer envelopes. Although I imagine this public payment does more to extract funds from audiences. No one wants to be seen to only give a few coins or a half-eaten cookie…

Hedgehogs are a Thing in London Theatre. Who knew?

Second show of the day and I almost didn't make it. 

I left plenty of time. There was a whole three hours between the end of show one and the start of show two. And I didn't stray far, only popping back to Finchley to pick up some stuff I needed. And, okay, maybe having quick raid of the cupboards for biscuits, in exchange for gossip over a cup of tea. That wasn't the problem. Getting back off the sofa was.  

I'm not very good at this whole more-than-one-show-in-a-day thing. And the knowledge that not only did I actually have to go to a second theatre, but then I'd have to write about it afterwards… Well, my bum was firmly planted and had no intention of getting back up again. 

At a quarter to seven, things were getting worrying. 

Because I couldn’t miss this one. I really couldn’t. I’ve been waiting nine damn months for them to programme a show. For most of that time, their website had been so static with old events, I thought the place had closed permanently. But no, they were undergoing refurbishment. 

And now, they’re back. 

For one night only. 

With no promise of a follow-up show. 

I grabbed my phone, and without letting myself think too much about it, booked myself a ticket. There. No escaping it after that. I had to go. Or else lose out on a whole fifteen quid and change. Not an amount of cash I'm really in a position to throw away.

With a bit of help, I was able to lever myself into an upright position, waddle my way over to the tube station, and journey the three stops towards Highgate, where the next theatre on my marathon list lives: the peculiarly named Red Hedgehog. 

I can’t see much from the outside. Stained glass windows hide whatever activities are lurking within. But the door is open, and it looks like it’s ready for business. 

Through the door and there’s a table set up with money box and programmes. And a box officer. Wearing a sparkly top hat, which is doing it’s mostest to wake me up. 

“Hi, the surname’s Smiles?” I say. 

The box officer dithers and I notice there’s no list of names on this table. 

“I booked on ticketsource?” I say, turning around my phone to show him the booking confirmation. 

“You’ve already booked?” he says, clearly relieved. “That’s fine then.” 

I point to one of the programmes. “Can I get one of these?” 

“That’s the programme,” he says. “That’s one pound. But…!” He does a magician’s assistant-pose, holding up another, identical-looking, booklet. “If you get one of these, this is a booklet of poetry, that’s three pounds, and you get the programme for free.” 

“That’s the bargain then?” 

He nods. Yup. That’s the bargain. 

Well, who am I to turn down such an offer? I hand him the three quid and get both booklets in exchange. 

Right, time to figure out where to sit. 

The place has been set up cabaret style. 

Rows of chairs fight for space between the tables.

It’s all very cheerful looking. Mismatched vases do their best to contain brightly coloured blooms and ginghaam tablecloths clash wildly with each other.

A woman moves between the tables, depositing tealights. 

On the far side, on the other side of a knocked through wall, is the stage. All leather sofas and what looks like a piano lurking over in the corner.

A lady catches my eye and grins. 

“Where’s the best place to sit?” I ask. 

She thinks about this, then beckons me to follow her, sliding our way in between the tables until we’re in the middle of a row. 

“The cast are going to come through from this side,” she says pointing. “Most of the time they’ll be between those two sofas. Sometimes they’ll sit on them, but mostly they’ll be under that light. You see?” 

I do see. 

I pick a seat over on the far side, second row. You know how I hate sitting at the front. Plus, I fancy getting a proper look at that piano. 

It's a bit squishy in here. The tables are packed tight and the chairs are packed even tighter.

I distract myself with a quick look at the poetry book. I have to admit, poetry isn’t my thing. I wish it was. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind poetry. I just don’t understand poetry. I think it’s my lack of musicality that does it. I can’t clap out a recognisable beat, and I can’t hear the rhythm in poetry. I can just about cope with spoken word. But poetry? Nope. Sucks, but there you go. 

I move onto the programme. That’s where my heart lives. Tucked up between the credits and the biogs. I don’t need to tell you how much I love a good programme. 

From amongst the headshots, I spot one rather familiar looking photo. It’s the lady who advised me on seating choices. Judit Catan. The writer and poet and producer. 

Oh, well that’s not embarrassing at all. But I suppose she knows the sightlines! 

“How did you hear about the show?” she asks, leaning over the back of a chair to talk to me. 

Oh dear. It’s that question again. 

I run through a few possible answers. Telling her that I’ve been stalking the Red Hedgehog’s website for nine months is probably going to provoke more questions, if not a raised eyebrow. I’m a theatre nerd with nothing else to do on a Saturday night is going for the pity angle which I don’t really want to be exploiting right now. I decide to go for the truth. “It’s a weird one,” I tell her. “I’m doing this challenge where I’m trying to visit every theatre in London within a year.” 

She looks taken aback. I’m not surprised. I’m well used to that expression by now. 

“But why this show?” she insists. 

Is there a way to tell her that Boris Johnson could be spending his prorogation sitting on stage, picking his nose for an hour, and I would have to book it if it he was doing it at a theatre I hadn’t been to before, without sounding rude? Probably not. 

I shake my head. “I’ve been waiting for this venue to programme something, and here we are,” I say, throwing up my arms to demonstrate what a delightful coincidence it all is. 

A man sneaks into the row behind me and shifts his chair. 

“Am I in your way?” I ask.  

“Oh, no. Don’t worry,” he says, even though I clearly am.  

Then he asks it. “Do you know someone in the show?” 

Oh dear. You’ve been doing this marathon with me long enough to know what that means.  

“Well,” I start. “It’s a bit of a weird one…” And I tell him about the marathon.  

On the other side of me, the writer is chatting with a newcomer. She points to me. “I was just telling him about your theatre challenge,” she says. 

“You’re visiting every London theatre?” he asks. 

“Yup,” I confirm. And tell him about the marathon. You’d think after giving the same speech three times in one night I’d be a bit better at it. But my shame keeps me from forming coherent sentences. Bless every single person who has had to struggle their way through my jumbled explanations this year. 

The room is filling up. 

“Anyone sitting here?” asks someone struggling into my row. 

“No. You go for it,” I tell him. 

He nods and plonks himself down. “Otherwise I can’t see the piano,” he explains. 

No explanation needed my friend. I had the exact same thinking when I chose this little corner of ours. 

On cue, the box officer comes over and sets himself up at the piano, ready to play.

We start. Insanity and Song in The News Room. 

No dimming of lights. We’re going for the shared light experience here. Lamps on stage. Tealights on tables. The lighting rig above our heads is getting no use tonight. 

Songs and poems alternate, with the framing device of being in a newsroom. Correspondents called out to step forward and give their thoughts, in the form of stanzas. 

The front row is a glitter of screens as people get out their phones to take photos. 

Behind me is the whirr and click of a proper camera. 

“That was great,” says the person sitting behind me as the interval hits. 

“Yes,” I nod. “But freezing.” After spending the entire day sweltering, I now have to pull my jacket over my shoulders and dig out my scarf from my bag. 

“Is the bar open?” my neighbour asks as nobody moves from their seats. 

The writer stands up. “The bar is still available to anyone,” she announces. 

A few people do their best to escape from the tightly packed chairs and make their way over to the bar. 

I slump down in my seat and shiver. It really is cold in here now. 

Act two starts up and a woman in the front row is determined not to miss a bit of it. Holding up her phone, she starts recording the songs. Task complete, she brings up WhatsApp and starts sending her freshly minted audio to someone. A click and a tap later, it starts playing back. 

She jabs at her phone, trying to get it to stop, but it plays on, drowning out the cast as they gamely try not to lose focus. 

The writer leans over. “I’ll send you the show recording,” she says. 

The woman nods. 

But a second later her phone is back up and she’s pinching the screen to get the perfect photo. 

I think we can safely say that this show will not be short of production images. 

At the end there’s applause and the writer nips on stage to give her thanks to everyone. 

The bar is back open. It’s time to start celebrating. 

I pull my jacket tight close around me and make a sprint for the tube station. 

The Art of the Dead Woodlouse

I'm at Kings Place. I'm not sure what Kings Place is. But I'm here all the same.

Apart from having a name whose lack of apostrophe is making me itchy, Kings Place is also a great big, glass-fronted, building just behind King's Cross station. There are banners out front decorated with soundwaves that have apparently been lifted from... The Guilty Feminist podcast. And suchlike. Ceramics fill the windows. They're for sale. If you have a couple of grand to drop on something that looks like a mouldy ship's model. I don't, so I go inside.

The confirmation email said to pick up my tickets from the box office just inside the door.

That was useful, because without that instruction I would have wandered off into this space in an open-mouthed gaze.

It's fucking massive. With those towering ceilings you find in fancy new office blocks, where you can see into each of the tens of floors overlooking the foyer. Like a slice has been taken out of the most boring layer cake in history.

I go over to the reception (which, I guess, is also a box office) and give my surname.

“And the postcode please?" asks the box officer as she pulls my ticket from the ticket box.

I give it, and get handed a ticket for my troubles.

Right then. Time to investigate this joint.

On the far side it looks like there is some sort of cafe action going on. Next to it, closed off and guarded by a doorman, is: The Rotunda. I'm guessing that's a schmancy restaurant.

There's a great big long table, long enough to restage the Red Wedding, overlooking two massive escalators, descending into (and rising from) a pit of a basement.

According to the signage on the wall, that's where the theatre spaces live.

I ride down, adding to my mental list of theatres with escalators in them (Royal Opera House, Gillian Lynne, artsdepot...).

We sail past a gallery level with lots of terrifying paintings, and land next to a sculpture that I'm pretty sure is meant to be a dead woodlouse.

Two young men pause to look inside at the poor curled up skeleton within.

I look around for Hall Two. That's where I'll be spending my matinee today. Turns out it's just behind a small seating area.

The doors aren't open yet, but the sofas are already crammed with people ready to launch themselves at them. Opera crowds are keen. Combine with that unallocated seating and you've got a pile of people willing to turn up an hour early to join the scrum.

They're quiet now. Poised. Waiting. Reading programmes.

Ooo. I want me one of those. I frickin' love a programme.

There's a cloakroom desk over on the other side, close to the doors. And there seems to be some sort of sign on the counter. I can't read it from here, but I'm betting it's advertising the price of programmes.

I go over and yup - £3.50. I can do that.

"Would you like to pay by cash or card?" the front of houser asks.

I choose card. I still haven't bought the ticket for my evening show, and I'm worried I'll need my notes to get it on the door.

He presses a few buttons on his tablet, and the card machine instructs me to do my thing.

“There's two pieces to it," explains the front of houser. "The Chamber Opera and the Text," he says, handing over not one, but two programmes.

I look at them in wonder, my heart pounding with the thrill of being given two whole programmes.

“Love a twofer," I tell him, scuttling away with my prizes.

The doors are opening now. Time to go in.

I show my ticket to one of the ushers. “Please sit on the far side,” she says, letting me pass.

Ah. Okay.

I can see what she’s after. A slim apron pushes out from the stage, and rows of chairs have been set up on either side.

I pick my way over to the far side.

The front row is filling up, but I dismiss that, sliding down to the end of the second row.

“It’s unallocated,” explains an usher to a confused audience member. “So technically you can sit wherever you want. We’re just trying to fill up the rows.”

He chooses the second row too. Next to me.

“Is the screen changing?” asks a lady indicating the large screen above the stage. “Dear Marie Stopes,” it reads. That’s the name of the opera we’re seeing.

“I’m not sure…” replies the usher.

“I want to make sure that I can see it if it does…”

The usher nods. Yes, she wouldn’t want to miss that.

“Is that seat free there?” she asks, pointing to an empty seat in the front row.

He obligingly goes off to ask the man sitting next to it. Turns out it is free, and she is able to sit in it, content in the knowledge that should the screen change, she’ll be able to see it.

The musicians come out and start setting up as the last of the audience wander about trying to pick the best seats. It’s getting tricky now. Both front rows are full and no one wants to sit further back. Not when there is no rake going on.

I look around.

It’s a nice room.

Very high ceilings.

The walls are painted a calming shade of dark blue grey. There’s wood panelling. But like, the modern sort. That doesn’t look like it was ripped from a murder mystery novel. The seats are fairly comfortable and aren’t too closely packed.

It’s all rather nice.

Over on the opposite side, a woman has perched herself on the side of the stage to read her programmes. I can’t quite tell why she has perched herself on the side of the stage to read her programmes. It doesn’t look like a very comfy place to sit. And she has a chair. I can see it. Just a few feet away from the spot on the stage that she has claimed as her own.

It’s still a few minutes to show time, so I get out my own programmes.

They’re made in exactly the same way. A single piece of paper, arranged in a letter fold, to form six pages. One has the libretto. The other the credits. They’re nicely designed. And printed on good paper. I’m rather happy with them, until I remember that I paid over three quid for these things and then I feel a little ripped off. These are freesheets. Or at least, they should be freesheets. What counts as a programme note in this thing was written by the composer. At most, I would charge a pound for them. In a concession to the pleasing layout and nice paperstock.

Still feeling a little outraged, the doors close and the lights dim.

The lady on the stage gets up slowly, packing away her programmes and fussing around in her bag before finally going back to her seat and sitting herself down.

We begin.

The role of Marie Stopes seems to be being sung by a counter-tenor, which… fine. But also… why? I mean, Feargal Mostyn-Williams is great. And has a name I most heartfully approve of. But not quite sure why he is here. Is this for musical reasons? I really hope it’s for musical reasons. And not some bizarre idea that an opera entirely sung by women would be a bad thing. And let's not even touch on the single character with education and authority being gender swapped to male…

Anyway, Marie Stropes is being sung by a counter-tenor, and the whole thing is rather depressing. The past was, like, really bad. The present isn’t all that great either. But the past was worse.

Jess Dandy and Alexa Mason hand out pamphlets to the front row.

The person sitting in front of me gives hers a cursory look before dropping it under her seat.

Ungrateful wretch.

Forty-five minutes of death and pain later, we reach the end.

We applaud.

The cast wave up two more people. The creatives I’m guessing. They all link hands down the apron and bow. First to one side of the room. Then the other.

The lights come up.

It’s time to go.

Except no one is leaving.

The woman sitting in front of me gets up and goes over to talk to one of the musicians. There’s lots of cries of “how are youuuuu, it’s been agessss,” around the room.

I reach under the chair and grab the pamphlet, flipping it open to see what was inside.

Nothing.

I lay it reverently on the chair, hoping the owner comes back to claim it.

As for me, I’ve got another show to get to.

My row is still crowded, so I have to inch my way around the back, avoiding the crowded groups determined to block every possible route of escape.

I make it though.

Past the dead woodlouse, up the escalator, across that cake stand and out into the sunshine.

I breath in the claggy traffic-fumed air. One more show. Then I can go home and sleep.

Let’s do this thing.

Third Door on the Right and Straight on Till Morning

Well, it's happened. The marathon has brought me to Croydon.

Not a place I'd ever thought I would need to go, but life is funny that way.

And you know what? I've been here all of thirty seconds, and it's true what people say.

There are trams.

I can hear them clanging their way up the hill, with people scattering in their wake so as not to get run over. I stick to the prescribed crossings. You know I ain't good with roads. I am so going to get run over one day, and I'll be damned if it's by a trolley.

The pavements are cluttered with ads for Fairfield Halls. I can't move for seeing posters advertising their opening gala, and that Angela's Ashes musical which nobody asked for. There's even artwork painted onto the tarmac itself. They are going hard on the marketing. But that's not my destination tonight.

Nope, I keep on walking, turn into a cobbled street and stumble down a very steep hill. Strings of hanging bulbs criss-cross over the courtyard, and tables with long benches are set up under them.

It's all very cute.

This place is giving me some serious Neal's Yard vibes. The signage makes me feel like the windows should be crammed with classy blue bottles and dried herbs. Even the name is a rip: Matthew's Yard.

Except I won't be buying overpriced skincare tonight. Oh no. I've heard tell that there is a theatre lurking somewhere within. And I really hope the rumours are true, because I've booked myself in to see a play.

Inside it's all big communal tables and brick walls painted with murals. There's a kitchen advertising itself as a vegan grill, and a counter covered with what I like to call I'm-having-a-bad-day cakes. You know the kind. Ones where a single slice will cover an entire plate. And have so much icing it'll dam your tear ducts for a least a couple of hours.

What I don't see, is a theatre.

I have a wander around. There's a staircase, but that only leads halfway up a wall and no further. There's a back room with a ping pong table in it, and nothing else. And a gallery. This also leads to nowhere.

I'm stumped.

It's 7.15pm and the show will be starting in fifteen minutes. And I have no idea where the theatre is.

I look around, trying to work out which of these people are here to see a show, and which are only after the vegan burgers. Everyone is eating, or drinking, or looking really intensely at the menu.

No one looks to be ready to be watching a play right now.

My anxiety, already rumbling away in the background after all those trams, flares right the fuck up.

I bring up their website on my phone. It's not a very good website. They don't even list their events on it. Oh no, You have to go to the Facebook page for that. What they do have, however, is details about how to hire their spaces. I look at the theatre page, trying to get clues about it’s location. But there's nothing.

I do find out it's the first crowd-funded theatre in the UK. Which is nice. Not very useful in this moment. But nice all the same.

It's no good. I'm going to have to ask.

I get in the queue at the cake counter.

"Sorry, we are only taking cash tonight," says the young woman serving when I get to the front.

"Oh, no. I was just wondering where the theatre was," I ask, suddenly panicking that I was in the wrong place. There is no theatre. And never was.

"It's through there," she says, pointing to a doorway behind the counter. There's a sign hanging over it. It says: Lounge. "It's third door on the right."

I look through the door. There's a corridor going on down there. A very dark corridor.

"Okay... Do I need to check in with a box office, or..."

She laughs. "No, it's quite informal, I think."

Right... Well, here goes anything. I start walking down the dark hallway. Counting the doors on the right until I reach the third one. It's closed. Very closed. And we all know the rules of theatre doors: don't be opening them if they are shut.

But opposite there is an open door. I have a look inside. It's the promised lounge. Complete with faerie lights, tables, chairs, and even a piano.

It's deserted.

There's no one around.

Slightly scared, I go back to the cafe part and stand around, trying to think what to do.

The clock on my phone ticks on. It's 7.29pm.

My anxiety is burning up all to hell. I can't believe I came all the way to Croydon, risking death by tram, for this.

I might just go home...

A man emerges from the corridor. He's wearing a very smart white shirt. And a tie. He lifts up his arms, high above his head. The chatter in the cafe stills as we all look at him.

When he has our attention, he dramatically points behind him,

I think he wants us to follow him.

A table full of young people clatter out of their seats and go down the corridor. As does a girl who had been sitting by herself.

I follow on behind.

Down the dark corridor, and through the third door on the left. Now open.

Inside is a large room. There's a tech desk at the back. And a low wooden stage at the front. In between are rows of folding chairs, white with vinyl covered cushions the colour of sweeties. Pink and green and orange and blue.

The group all make a rush for the front row.

As does the lone girl.

I leave them too it. You know how much I hate sitting in the front row.

I slide myself into the second. Right to the end.

The man in the white shirt hops onto the stage and grooves to the music playing. A couple of girls from the group groove back at him, swaying in their seats.

A minute later, he's off again, dancing away to gather up more audience members.

He returns with two ladies. They sit in the front row too. There's one space left.

It does not get filled.

The man indicates something to the tech person. Close the door. Even I manage to understand that gesture. But the tech person doesn't, and it's left to our performer to dance off to the door, close it, and switch off the house lights.

Right, we're ready to begin.

The man is Tunji Joseph. It's his play. He wrote it. White board: Back pieces: Race in the west.

That's a lot of punctuation for a title.

But the show is slick and moves at a fast clip through stories and anecdotes and questions, and an attempt at some of the answers. What it is to be black in a white world. How it messes with self-perception and even something as fundamental as desire.

Joseph tells a story about being a student at ArtsEd (the group in the front row whoop - so we all know where they studied) and having to go on dates with classmates while in character. About being attracted to one the white girl he was out with. About getting a nod from a fellow black man in the restaurant and not knowing the meaning of the nod.

Joseph brings out a tennis ball and shows it to us.

Going over to the front row, he shows it to the guy sitting on the aisle. "What colour is this?" Joseph asks.

"Light green?" chances the guy on the aisle.

Joseph is horrified. Light green? That is literally the wrongest answer that ever wronged.

He looks around and spots me. Oh dear.

Making his way into the second row he holds out the tennis ball. "What colour is this?"

Well, if light green is super duper wrong. Then I'm going to go for the exact opposite. "Red?"

Nope.

"Does no one know what this is?" cries out Joseph, clearly distressed.

No one does.

And we get to the end of the show without ever finding out.

Joseph announces there will be a short break, and then we'll have having a Q&A to discuss the process and whatnot.

I have to say, I'm not a big fan of the Q&A. The whole "more of a comment than a question” thing doesn't really do it for me. I'm sure, out there, in the world, exists someone who asks interesting questions, but I've never heard one. I suspect the type of person who does have interesting things to ask, isn't the sort to stay behind after a show to ask them.

But I stay. I'm fairly confident that I'm the only person here who doesn't know the playwright, and I think it'll be a teensy bit obvious if I step out now.

A woman in the from row raises her hand. "This isn't a question, it's more of a statement..."

Oh gawd...

After a few more statements, and reminisces about the good old days at ArtsEd, we get to the first real question.

"What audience did you imagine? Who did you write this for?"

I sit forward. Now this I find interesting. Because this audience is hella white, and not at all what I pictured when I booked this show.

This marathon has taken me to all sorts of places and all sorts of shows. I've been in plenty of audiences where my whiteness put me in the minority, and even one where I was the only white person in the building apart from the staff, and I've always tried to take this into consideration. Sitting at the back, not taking space away from the people the show was created for. You know. I'm doing my best over here not to be an arsehole. Me doing this marathon shouldn't be getting in the way of someone seeing their art.

So the whiteness of the room I'm sat in, is surprising.

Joseph is more accepting though. "Theatre audiences are white and middle class," he says with a shrug after admitting we weren't quite the crowd he was going for.

"If you can stay, I'll see you in the bar in a few minutes," says Joseph and we all make our way out.

Well, apart from the few kind souls who offer to stay behind and tidy up the chairs.

ArtsEd should be proud.

Me on the other hand, I'm got a tram I need to not get caught by.

The Voice of God is lost in Hell

After whinging and complaining about the ticket prices at the Hampstead Theatre when I was here last time, I’m back, in the main house, and the somewhat proud owner of a fully bought and paid for ticket. And only twenty-five quid, which, while not exactly a bargain, is definitely on the right side of almost reasonable.

Anyway, it’s the first production in the new AD’s first season. And Roxana Silbert has programmed a play with a title so striking, I just had to book myself in: The King of Hell’s Palace. I mean, come on. That sounds really me, doesn’t it?

As I step through the glass doors, I instantly feel ten years younger. I have a spring in my step and am filled with the joyous optimism of youth. It’s very disconcerting.

I try to enjoy it. It’s not often that I, being in my… don’t make me say it… mid-thirties now, get to be the youngest person in the room. But bar a few shiny-looking ushers, I am a mere child in comparison to the rest of tonight’s crowd.

I bounce my way over to the box office counter, side-stepping to avoid a very elderly man who is shuffling past at such a lilt I’m fearful he won’t make it to the other side.

Thankfully, we both make it to our destinations, and I give the nearest box officer my name, and he pulls the Ss free from the ticket box.

“Can you just confirm your postcode?” he asks.

I can. And do.

He unfolds the ream and inspects it. “You’ve got a programme voucher,” he says, tearing it free. This is news to me, I must have felt ballin’ when I bought this ticket. Still, it saves me fifty pee, and three quid isn’t bad at all for the hefty programme he hands me with a cheerful “here you go!”

“You’re entering through door number one,” he goes on, pointing to the doorway at the end of the gangway just next to us. It is indeed marked with a huge number one. Two number ones, actually. One handing down from the ceiling, and another affixed to the wall. This doorway isn’t shy about showing it’s dominance.

I get out my phone to take a photo and one of those shiny young ushers freezes just as she was about to step into my shot.

“It’s okay,” I tell her.

She dithers, not wanting to ruin my photo.

“Really, it’s fine,” I assure her, waving her across. And with that, she belts her way across the walkway, diving through the premiere door in order to keep the inconvenience of her presence to a minimum.

Bless.

I have a flick through of the programme. They’ve changed since I was here last. Paper is thicker, and uncoated. The binding is perfect rather than saddle stitched. This place has upped its game. The programmes look well fancy now.

One of the box officers calls over a front of house. She has a radio. I’m thinking we’ve got a duty manager in the vicinity.

“Can you tell the voice of god to announce the house is open?” asks the box officer.

The suspected duty manager duly makes the request and a few seconds later…

“The house is now open,” comes god’s voice over the sound system. “May I remind you…” but the rest of her message to us mortals is lost in the hubbub of the foyer. I just hope I remember whatever we needed to be reminded of.

I decide to go in before I forget anything else.

Down the gangway that takes me right over the foyer of the downstairs theatre, past the side of the curved hull of the theatre, and through door one.

There’s a ticket checker in here.

“First row of this section, just up the stairs,” he says, indicating the way.

I follow his directions, going up the short series of steps that take me towards the back of the stalls.

It's like a mini balcony back here. Slightly raised from the rest of the stalls, and yes, I'm in the front row of it - contained behind a dividing wall.

"'Scuse me. Sorry. Do you mind?" I say as I inch my way through to my seat.

An older man, looks up at me as I approach. "Are you...?" He points to the empty space next to him.

"No," I tell him. "I'm a bit further on. Sorry," I had as he disgruntedly gets to his feet.

In my seat I get down to the business of getting play-ready. Jacket off. Glasses on. Check my phone...

"There must be a way to knock them out," says the old man's wife, giving me some serious side-eye. "Theatres should do something. Stop the signal."

"Phones are always going off," agrees the old man.

I roll my eyes. My phone is on silent. It's been on silent since 2007. No one under the age of fifty has a ringtone nowadays.

But nice to know that I'm sitting next to people that would rather theatres indulge in illegal phone jamming then put up with the odd noise from someone who never managed to convince their grandkids how to change the settings on their phone.

I put my phone on airplane mode and shove it away in my bag.

I have a bloody good view of the stage. Almost in the middle and with no heads blocking the way. I can see the whole stage. Even the thrusty bit sticking out into the stalls. There's a travellator there. No, wait. There are two travellators there, running all the way to a pair of doors at the back of the set. I'm not sure about this. I've seen my fair share of travellators on stage before. It's almost never good news. Still, I've got some excellent legroom here. Lots of it. Time to get comfy.

I lean back and wriggle my shoulders. Hmm. No, that's no right. I pull my jacket free from behind me, shove it under my seat, and try again.

Yeah. No. There's still something there.

I shift forward and look behind me.

Sticking out of the back of the seat is what I can only describe as a bolster cushion. It juts out, like the arch support of an orthopaedic shoe. I can only imagine its existence is designed to sit within the small of the back, but my spine does not want to conform. I try again, first sitting up really tall, and then slouching back down, trying to work out whether I am too short or too tall for the anatomy of these seats. Neither seems to work. There is clearly something very wrong with my backbone.

Too late to worry about it now. The play is starting. We're flung back in time. To the 90s. In China. After making it through the Great Famine, everyone is determined to make it rich. The peasants are selling their plasma, and the city-folk are more than happy to buy it. Even if they don't have enough centrifuges in the clinics to keep all the blood separate before pumping it back into bodies.

In a fit of dancing exuberance, a red baseball cap goes flying into the audience. During the interval, a front-rower retrieves it, laying it carefully on the thrust part of the stage so that it can be retrieved by a stage manager.

My neighbour returns and immediately gets her phone out. I consider making a comment about how theatres really should do something about blocking signals within the auditorium, but I'm tired, and I finally managed to find a position in this seat where the back cushion isn't trying to paralyse me.

She puts it away, and the second act starts.

A fever is spreading. But it can't be AIDS. AIDS doesn't exist in China, And it's illegal to say otherwise.

But the peasants are growing peonies. My absolute favourite flower. And there are thousands of them. In all the colours. Covering the stage with their blooms until it starts to look like a Pina Bausch performance.

I think I'm in heaven.

Or hell. I can't tell.

When Yin Yin's husband unpacks her suitcase, and finds five whole bottles of sriracha, well, I have never felt so seen. I wouldn't be fleeing the country without an adequate supply of the hot stuff either.

We make it through to the end, and not a single phone rings. Not even mine.

Turns out you can trust the masses to think for themselves. Sometimes.

Red Mask, Gold Shoes

Well, this is a first. A theatre without a website. I honestly didn't think that was possible. Not in this year of 2019.

I thought not having online booking was bad enough. I've grumbled and moaned about having to email venues in order to reserve tickets. But this is the first one that I've come across that doesn't even have a landing page floating around on the ethernet with an address or something.

Based on the online-evidence, you'd think this place doesn't exist. Except I, for a fact, know that it does. Firstly, because it has a listing on offwestend.com, which in itself doesn't mean much. There are plenty of places on that site that don't exist, and haven't existed for a good many years. But thankfully I have a secondly. And that secondly is that I've had this place mentioned to me by a friend. Well, I say mentioned, but it was mainly her trying to convince me that I don't need to go. "It's small," she insisted, in a conversation that may or may not have been part of an intervention. "Really small. Max, I honestly don't think it counts."

Well, more fool her because it does count.

How does one buy tickets from a venue that is doing it's best to pretend not to exist though? That truly is a conundrum.

I considered going in person. It's only a short walk from my current base in Hammersmith. But the problem with that, is that it actually involves going somewhere. And despite the whole concept of this blog, I don't actually like going places.

But go places I must. All the way to Barons Court, to the Curtains Up pub, where a theatre is apparently lurking somewhere within.

I stand outside, on the opposite pavement, trying very hard not to question the plurality of the curtains.

Turns out, I don’t have to worry about getting a ticket. After a bit of Googling, I managed to find an Eventbrite listing for tonight’s show, and so git myself booked in. I check the details. It’s a 7.15pm start time.

I have a few minutes. It doesn’t do to be too early at these things.

Especially as I am highly suspect about that timing. Pub theatres don’t start their plays at 7.15pm. They just don’t. The standard London theatre time of 7.30pm? Sure. 7.45pm? Even better. 8pm? Or 9pm even? Sometimes. But 7.15? No. Never.

Either this place has a bedtime curfew, or they are sick of audience members rocking up half-way through the first act.

People sit around outside, having a drink and a cigarette. A grumpy looking pug sniffs around under a table.

I carry on walking.

I’ve told you before about this intuitive sense that I’ve developed on the marathon. I’ve visited so many theatres this year, I can tell just by looking at a place where I need to go and what I need to do.

And my intuition is telling me that I need to keep on walking.

Not too far. Just around the corner. And yes, there it is. A small side door set into the wall. And above it, on a small wooden plaque, a sign: Barons Court Theatre.

So, it really does exist.

I go in.

There’s a staircase leading down.

Another small plaque, this one affixed to a low lintel whose purpose seems to be solely to knock people on the head, says: Theatre Exit.

A basement pub theatre. That’s unusual. Haven’t come across many of those so far. Like first wives, pub theatres are usually locked away in the attic.

I start to stroll down, but I spot something. Another sign. This one slightly above the first. On paper, sellotaped to the ceiling. “STOP!” I stop. “No entry to the theatre this way.”

Oh.

Okay.

Um.

I go back up to the landing and stand awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

So much for intuition.

The door at the top of the stairs opens, and someone comes out.

Over their shoulder I see the gleaming warmth of the pub beyond.

I suppose I should probably go in there.

It’s a nice pub. Velvety armchairs and spotlights on the walls showing off artwork. Amongst them is a painting of Salvador Dali, gazing out from the black frame, a fried egg sliding off his moustache.

I ignore all that, because there’s a door just opposite, and it’s marked up as being the way to the “Theatre & Toilets.” My intuition is back in business.

Through the door. Down a corridor. Following an arrow which once again points out the way to: Theatre & Toilets. And down a staircase decorated with a line-up of headshots. I stop again. The arrow here is only pointing the way to the Gents. I don’t want the Gents. I want the theatre.

I try to turn around, but there is a man (perhaps even a Gent) behind me.

“Is this the way to the theatre?” I ask, more to explain my lack of movement on the stairs than to get his input.

“Sorry. It’s my first time here,” he says.

I let him pass, watching him disappear around a corner.

I don’t get that far. I find another door. It says Theatre on it. That’s good.

Except it’s closed. And has a lock on it. Which is less good.

I dither, trying to decide what I should do.

Exactly on cue, the door opens.

“Are you here for the play?” asks the man as I jump aside to give him room.

“Yeah… umm… where’s the box office?”

“It’s just through here,” he says, pointing behind him. “With the theatre.”

But he doesn’t move aside, and we just end up standing there, staring at each other.

“Shall I go back upstairs then?” I ask, feeling its on me to break the stalemate.

“No, the theatre is here,” he says. “And the box office,” he adds, just in case I didn’t get it.

“Is it open yet?”

“No.”

“Okay…”

“We’ll let you know…”

“Right.”

Again, the awkward silence.

I look around. There isn’t much room down here. And I don’t know about you, but hanging around outside the men’s loos is not my idea of a quality evening.

“I’ll just go back upstairs then,” I tell him.

He accepts that, and we both trudge our way back up the steps, past the headshots, towards the bar.

Back in the pub, I find an empty table and plonk myself down into one of the armchairs. It’s very comfortable. I find myself leaning back, my body sinking into the chair’s sweet embrace. It’s been a long day.

Before I fall asleep, I check the time.

Huh. So much for a 7.15pm start time. I just knew that was all nonsense.

A glamourous-looking young woman, with a tiny jacket and metallic stiletos comes in. She looks around, pauses to read the sign over the door, and then walks through to the corridor. I watch her. She strides past the Ladies, turns on her stilleto, and then slowly makes her way down the stairs.

I wait.

A few minutes later she's back.

Right then. The house isn't quite open yet.

I keep an eye on the flow of people.

Mostly men, jouneying to the Gents.

I try to remember them, to see if they come back. But they're all wearing idential grey suits and I can't tell any of them apart.

Eventually the woman with the golden shoes returns, and tries her luck once more.

This time, she does not come back.

I check the time. It's a few minutes off 7.30. I should probably go see what's happening.

From the top of the steps I can see that the door to the theatre is now propped open.

Inside, rows of seating crowd in close on one side. On the other is a small hutch, where the box officer lives.

I give him my name.

"You paid, right?"

I did indeed.

He notes down my name on his clipboard. "Eventbrite?"

"Yes?"

"Smiles," he says slowly as he writes, adding the bracketed word "(PAID)" after my surname.

He points to the bank of seating behind me.

"This side is probably best," he advises.

Well, I'm always one to follow advice.

There are three rows of seating here. The first one is completly empty. I'm not a fan of the front row at the best of times, and sitting alone in a tiny pub theatre is not about to change things for me. The second row looks fairly crowded. I dismiss that one too. The third and last row has one person in it. The glamorous lady with the golden footwear.

It's fate.

"Is anyone sitting on the end there?" I ask her, indicating the seats on the other side of her.

"Err... no?" she says, sounding confused. Although, maybe she's just clocked that there was someone staring at her shoes upstairs and now she's panicking.

"Do you mind?"

She gets up and let's me pass, and I tuck myself away at the far end of the row, right up against the wall of the tech box. It's the best I can do. But there's still only one seat between us.

Oh well. Guess I'm just a stalker now.

I distract myself from this startling self-realisation by looking around.

The stage is set amongst wide pillars, holding up a curved ceiling. The seating is on three sides. It's gloomy and creepy and I think I kind of love it. It's the sort of place you'd love to watch an Edgar Allan Poe story being performed. Which is handy. Because I'm here for The Masque of the Red Death.

So, that worked out well.

A man comes in and pauses at the box office, picking up a piece of paper from the tiny counter.

It's a freesheet.

I'd completly missed them.

"Are these free?" he asks the box officer.

Yup. Turns out that they are completly free.

He grabs a handfull and turns to us. "Programme? Would you like a programme?" he says, handing them out.

My glamorous neighbour takes one but doesn't hand it down.

She's probably still weirded out by me. Which, you know: fair.

"Would you...?" she says, turning to me and holding it out.

Oh. Well, yes, I would. I take it from her and hold it up to do the classic blogger-freesheet photoshoot. And then lay it carefully balanced ontop of the flip-seat between us. Just in case she wants it back. I'm not entirely convinced her generosity wasn't a loan. I wouldn't be handing over no freesheets to random strangers who stare at my shoes. That's for sure.

It's too dark to read it now anyway.

The house lights have extinguished.

It's 7.33pm.

The box officer switches off the light on his counter.

From the hallway outside I hear a voice. "I'm just going to the toilet, then we'll start."

We sit, waiting in the darkness.

A group comes in. They seem to know the people in the second row. "One more missing," they explain a front of houser reunites the friends.

"One more? Well, we need to start, but I'll be around!"

He goes over to the stage and welcomes us. "There are a few house rules," he explains. "The fire exit is over there," he says, pointing. "Please turn your phones onto silent. This performance contains fog and strobing, so... err... I hope that doesn't bother anyone."

It's time for the play to start.

It's... well, to be honest I don't know what it is. I'm lost. We seem to be at the party of a rather intense dominatrix. No one can leave becayse there is some really disgusting plague going on outside. The Red Death of the title. It all sounds rather icky and seems to involve sweating blood. Although, if it's a choice between that and having to spend the rest of my life cooped up with a woman who rents out her servants to the type of friends who think it's okay to send their playthings off for gender-realignment surgury and full-body tattoos, force others to recite poetry, and wear nude shoes with black tights... well, I think I'd take my chances.

It's super weird. Very Poe. Bit long. Only an hour, but even so... too much standing around in the pretext of creating atmosphere.

Still, I get a nice walk home, and am in bed by ten. So, I'd call that a success of an evening.

The fact that I spend the next three hours searching the web for golden high heels is neither here nor there.

Faith, Hope & Cold Chips

“I’m just waiting for a friend,” I tell the stage door keepers at the National, feeling a heady mixture of swishified fanciness and gnawing anxiety that they probably think I’m after an autograph or something.

I don’t know what it is about stage doors that put me on edge. It’s not like I don’t use the one at my work every single day. But still, there’s something about them. And that look the keepers give you. Ever so slightly suspicious and disapproving, while at the same time being unfailingly polite. A look borne of years of putting up with fangirls with no appreciation of crowd control. And actors. They’re the worst.

Thankfully just as I’m starting to shuffle nervously, Nicki appears.

“Shall we pick up the tickets?” she asks. “Or get a drink first?”

“Pick up the tickets? It’s only next door…”

We’re seeing Faith Hope & Charity at the Dorfman tonight. The smallest theatre space this place has to offer, and my final visit of the marathon to this our National Theatre, and, as it happens, only next door.

I let Nicki lead the way, back outside and over to the Dorfman entrance. On its private concrete terrace, a little raised from the quiet road round the back of the building.

The foyer is empty.

Just a few lone figures sit hunched at the long tables.

Behind the bar, a couple of front of housers busy themselves setting up in preparation for the crowds that will be descending on them soon enough.

Nicki goes over to the small box office that takes up the other end of the counter to the bar. She gives her name, gets our tickets, and then asks what I want to do.

“I can show you around?” she offers. “I can take you up to the walkway that looks down on where they make all the sets.”

Well, obviously I’m up for that. It’s not every day that you get a private tour. And I love all that scenery shit.

She takes me upstairs, dropping facts with every step as we go through to the backstage walkway.

“That’s the Drum Road,” she says, pointing down over the edge to a pathway cluttered with boxes and props and sinks and ladders and trunks. “It’s called that because the Drum is over there.”

“I fucking love the Drum revolve,” I tell her. That’s no exaggeration. I really love the Drum revolve. Honestly, a show in the Olivier Theatre that doesn’t make use of that rotating symphony of hydraulics is a waste, and everyone should be ashamed of themselves for letting it happen.

We peer down, watching tiny figures in distant corners do busy and important things.

“Shall we go to the Green Room?” Nicki suggests, as she runs out of stories to tell me about this part of the theatre.

She sure can!

We head back out onto the slim terrace hugging the outside of the building and walk around.

I stop to take a photo as she leads me into a cosy bar, covered in show posters and faerie lights.

The bar is closed. But we carry on, out into a notice-board heavy corridor and then… the staff canteen.

It smells… really good.

“Do you want to eat here?” Nicki offers, but her heart isn’t in it. This is where she has lunch everyday. “Or we could go to Burgerworks and get chips or something?”

I look at her. “You really want chips, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I really want chips.”

“Then let’s get chips then!”

So we do. Back downstairs, round the building, and into the pop-up restaurant currently living next to the National’s Understudy Bar.

It’s still early. Barely half past six. And there’s no queue.

Nicki orders mac and cheese and bacon bites. And chips. I lob in a programme. They’re all on display. On the counter. Very handy.

"What do you think of the programme?" Nicki asks. "I want to hear your proffesional opinon."

"They look very sophisticated now," I say, turning over the matt-covered booklet in my hand. Gone are the shiny slim versions, with the poster artwork printed on the front. Now they look a good deal more arty. Very small press chic. "But they've changed the size. That's going to take me years to get over. My collection's all over the place now."

With a flash of Nicki’s staff lanyard, we get a discount. But don’t worry. Obvs I’m paying.

With one of those flashy things in hand, we go round the corner to the Understudy bar and get drinks sorted.

“Oh, we could have ordered food in here…” says Nicki, spotting the Burgerworks menu over the bar.

Honestly. Can’t get the staff these days.

Still, another flash of the lanyard, and we’re off with our slightly-more-reasonable-priced drinks, off to find a spot at one of the long tables outside.

The chill has set in, and the acres of tables that had been packed mere days ago, are now empty. We find one of the few dry ones just as the flashy thing starts flashing, and Nicki goes off to collect the food.

She comes back laden with cardboard trays of fried stuff, and bottles of ketchup and sriracha tucked under each arm. It’s so nice grabbing dinner with someone who understands your condiment needs.

I'm gonna be real now. The chips are disappointing. And a bit cold. But the G&T is doing wonders, and the Cinnamon Scrolls I brought with me from Crosstown Doughnuts are going down a treat.

Fully carbed up, we waddle our way back to the Dorfman,

It's packed now, the little foyer a hive of buzzing gossip.

Nicki goes over to the bar to swap her pint glass for one of the National's fancy reusable plastic glasses. My drink is long gone, so I just try to stay out of everyone's way until she gets back.

Right. Time to go in.

Good thing we have Nicki's access to house seats because I'm not a fan of the Dorfman sight-lines. Those slip seats in the upper levels are outrageously overpriced, and I really can't get over the fact that someone signed off such restricted view seating in a new-built venue.

Three levels. Squashed into what is supposed to be the National's studio space. Unlucky enough to be sitting on the sides, and you'll find yourself having the lean forward every time a cast member crosses the half-way point on the stage below you.

Even from the central stalls, things aren't great. As I sit down, I find myself staring straight into the back of the head belonging to the person sitting in front of me. The seats aren't off-set at all. And the rake is miserable.

Honestly, some designers shouldn't be allowed near theatres.

Still, the set's a bit good. There's all sorts of doors and corridors and hatches and courtyards and things going on.

"There's an actor!" I say to Nicki as I spot Cecilia Noble dropping a bag-for-life on the counter and starting on the business of prepping the half-hidden kitchen.

The lights dim.

The play begins.

We're in some sort of community hall. Lunch is being served. And later... there'll be choir practise.

It's miserable. And heartwarming. And painful. And life-affirming. All at once.

Boom!

We're plunged into darkness, surrounded by a whirlwind of noise.

Boom!

Lights are back up.

The scene has changed. We've shifted forward a few hours.

My heart is thumping. It takes a good few minutes for me to realign to the gentle torture of Alexander Zeldin's play.

A few more trips to lights-off-land later, we make it to the interval.

"What do you think?" asks Nicki as we shuffle our way out to the foyer.

"I'm not sure about those overdramatic blackouts," I tell her. "They don't really fit in with anything else."

The foyer is filled with chatter. Mostly about the play.

Nicki points someone out to me. A playwright.

"Oh my god, are you serious?" I say, when she tells me who he is. "He looks like, really young." It's true. He does. Not what I was picturing at all. "Shall we go over and tell him how much we love him?"

"No!" says Nicki looking shocked. "I can't. I have to work with him soon."

Ah yes. She's got a reputation to look after now. "Okay, I'll go over and tell him I totally stan him."

"If you want..." She watches me expectantly as I fail to move.

He... looks busy. He's talking to people.

I'll tell him how much I adore his work next time.

Time to go back in. And you just know things are going to get worse for these gentle souls, who just want to have a hot meal together, and maybe sing a few songs.

Actors come and sit in the front row, taking up free seats amongst the audience.

Not really sure why that's happening. There are plenty of chairs onstage. Like the blackouts, whatever the director's reasoning for this is, it's lost on me. The people in the front row seem to be enjoying it though, twisting around in their seats to get a proper look at their new neighbours.

The characters limp sadly through to the end. Broken. Beaten down. But not yet defeated.

And I'm left with the lingering feeling that I really shouldn't be complaining about cold chips.

"Did you see the vomit?" asks Nicki as we make away down the Southbank to catch the tube.

"No!" I'm genuinely upset about this. I heard the vomit. I saw Susan Lynch's back heave as the vomit was happening. But there was a bloody great head blocking my view of the actual vomit.

My stomach gurgles as it does it's best to get through my carb-travaganza.

Oh well. Might get my own personal vomit display at this rate. Cold chips and all.

Going Barking

After spending the best part of five hours on the tube, running errands all around London, I step off the platform in Barking at 6.55pm. The show I'm seeing tonight starts at seven. TFL claims the theatre is an 11-minute walk away. Google Maps has estimated seven minutes. 

Looks like I'm going to take the advice of AWOLNATION and RUN. 

I pelt it down the highstreet, darting between the market traders packing away their stalls and into a wide sidestreet. Without bothering to check to see if there's a car coming I launch myself across the road, almost running over a small child skipping her way down the pavement. No matter. Kids heal fast. I keep going. Through the foliage of a large three I can just about make out a banner: "DANCE COMEDY MUSIC." It's the Broadway Theatre. I've found it. I skid to a hault, pausing just long enough to take a photo before aiming myself at the sliding doors. 

I'm in the box office. There are people queuing at the desk. It's 6.59pm. I fucking made it.  

I join the queue, clutching at my side and trying to think calming thoughts as I get my breath back. 

Behind the box office desk, there are three clocks. One set to the performance start time (7 o’clock). One to the finish time (10 o’clock). And one for the current time. That is the middle clock. And it has just clicked to one minute past seven. 

“The sound check ran over,” explains the box officer to the person in front. “They’d just finished their tech rehearsal. It should be starting in five minutes, but the doors are open. They just need everyone to take their seats.” 

Thank the theatre gods for overrunning tech run-throughs. 

It’s my turn. 

I give the box officer my surname and she sorts through the few remaining tickets. It doesn’t take her long. She frowns. 

“Hmm.” 

“I booked this morning?” I say, thinking they might be the sort of venue to print their tickets in advance. Turns out they’re not. 

“I have the confirmation email?” I try.

The box officer looks through the four last tickets once more, before taking my phone and inspecting the email. 

“Hmm,” she says again, setting it down by her keyboard and glancing between the screen of my mobile and the one on her computer. 

The minute hand on the central clock clicks forward another minute. 

And another. 

A queue grows behind me. Presumably all owners of those last four tickets. 

With a final tap of the mouse, the printer under the counter putters into action, and a ticket comes out. Thank goodness.  

Ticket in hand, I make for the stairs, finding myself in a large, light-filled bar. 

Not sure where I’m meant to go now. 

I look around confused, but my feet, led by some sixth theatre-sense, takes me off to some low doors across the way. 

A woman grabs my ticket from my fingers as I pass, too fast for me to react. “That way,” she says, pointing over to the low doors. “The ladies in blue will show you the way,” she adds, handing back the ticket to me.  

I turn around to thank her, but she’s already moved on. “The show is about to start!” she shouts to the bar. 

Through the doors and I’m in some sort of lobby. Sofas and armchairs nestle around large photos of shiny people doing earnest community things. 

There’s lots of doors in here. I pick the one that goes up to the balcony and start climbing the stairs in the very red stairwell. One day, I’m going to write a thesis about the presence of red corridors in theatres. There must be some psychological reason behind it. Perhaps to get everyone to hurry the fuck up. 

Well, it works, because I storm my way up those stairs, and find myself emerging at the back of the auditorium, right behind the tech desk. 

And there’s someone sitting in my seat. 

I check the row. And my ticket. Which is hard because it is black as the proverbial pitch in here. But yes, there is a bloke. In my seat. 

“Hi, sorry,” I say to him. “Are you V1?” I ask, knowing perfectly well that he is not V1. Because I am V1. And we can’t both be V1 unless things went very wrong at the box office. 

“Sorry,” he says, jumping out of the seat. “I was just sitting with my friends,” he adds, nodding to the group sitting behind. 

Apology accepted. I go to sit down. But the bloke is still hanging around in the aisle. 

“Sorry I…” he says, indicating the spare seats to the other side of me. 

I stand again to let him pass. 

I start on the business of getting settled in, taking off my jacket and putting on my glasses. 

But the peace doesn’t last for long. 

The owners of those four tickets have arrived and they want to claim their seats – right where the bloke is sitting. 

And they’ve brought an usher with them. 

Again, he tells them that he was just wanting to sit near his friends, but the usher asks to see his ticket and he is soon led off elsewhere. 

As for the friends? Yup. You guessed it. They were in the wrong seats too. Another usher comes to take them away, depositing them in the empty slip seats as the show starts. 

It’s Shakuntala. A dance drama based on the Indian tale. Full of glittery costumes, synchronised dances, lip-synching, projections, surtitles and a voiceovered narrator. 

But the drama isn’t contained on the stage. 

The seat-hopping at the back of the auditorium was only the start of a game of musical chairs that has no intention of quitting any time soon. 

One guy in the row in front begs his escape from his neighbour, only to return a few minutes later with a water bottle which he hands to the person sitting at the end of the row with the instruction to “pass it down.” 

Blue shirted ushers lead people in, turfing seat-stealers out of the way as they go, before starting the process anew as these seatless-wonders are led back to their official places, creating a domino effect of movement throughout the first act. The games only pause as the house lights rise to allow for the procession of an angry sage and his cymbal-clattering followers are they make their way down the aisles towards the stage. 

When it is the turn of Shakuntala herself, in her bridal red, to climb the stairs, I swear I see shadows scattering in her wake. 

There can’t be a single person in this place who reached the interval in the same spot they started the show in. 

The narrator tells us there will be an interval of 20 minutes. And that there are CDs of the songs available for purchase. 

I go back downstairs. Mainly to get some photos of the space. I didn’t have much time on the way up. 

As I aim my camera at some signage, a man comes up to me. “Where are the toilets?” he asks. 

I tell him I don’t know, and he apologises so profusely I realise he must have thought I was an usher. 

I’m currently wearing a Louis Theroux t-shirt, and playing with my phone. Not exactly the picture of the perfect usher. Oh well. 

In the bar, I look up and find that the word THEATRE has been marked out in huge, blocky, capital letters against the windows. 

I try to get a photo of that, but I can’t find the right angle. I go all the way to the far side of the bar to try to get it in, but from here, the letters are completely invisible. 

It’s only after the fourth or fifth attempt that I realise that windows are see-through, and I could go outside to get my photo. 

I do. And discover that from out here, the letters are all the right way around. 

Bonus. 

Back inside, and I find a quiet spot to inspect my art. 

“Where are the toilets?” 

I look up. It’s a woman, with her family in tow. 

“Sorry… I don’t know…” I say slowly,  

She apologies. She looks utterly embarrassed. 

And I wonder if I have somehow managed to get hired by the Broadway Theatre without my noticing. 

It doesn’t take long to figure out what’s happening though. 

It’s a race thing. 

The only white people in this theatre tonight are the ushers. And me.  

I make it through the rest of the interval without sullying the name of usher any further, and go back upstairs. 

The audience filters back in slowly. 

As I stand to let a group in, last person touches me on the arm and says thank you, in a gesture of such warmth I almost thank her right back. 

“Are you enjoying it?” asks my neighbour. 

I tell him I am.  

I mean, we’re not talking Martin McDonagh levels of scripting here. And the dancers aren’t exactly Mavin Khoo. But everyone on stage looks like they are having a great old time. And that has a charm all of its own. 

As the lights descend once more, I spot that he’s holding something. A programme. 

Where on earth did he get that? I was all over the place downstairs, and I didn’t see anyone selling programmes. I didn’t see much in the way of a front of house presence at all. Probably why everyone was asking me where the loos were. 

“Good evening ladies and gentleman,” comes a voice that is definitely not the narrator’s. “Can I ask if you are eating peanuts in the theatre, please put them away, as there are people with allergies.” 

I momentarily panic before I remember that not only am I not eating peanuts, I don’t even have any with me. So the chances of me being the source of this person’s flair up must be elsewhere. 

Peanuts presumable removed, the show starts again. 

Shakuntala is in all sorts of difficulties, but after some friendly fishermen have finished their dance, they manage to sort things out and break the curse that’s keeping her from her true love, the king. 

A microphone is brought out, and it’s time for the speeches. The cast and crew are thanked. All the back-stagers are brought out for bows, and there’s some moving talk about the connection to Barking. 

It’s all very sweet. 

That done, the house lights go up and I make for the door. It’s a long way back to Hammersmith. 

A man stops, and doubles back to talk to me. 

“That was interesting, wasn’t it?” he says.

“Yes,” I agree. “It was good.” 

He wants to say something else. I can tell. 

And sure enough, as we make our way to the stairwell, he asks: “Do you come to this kind of show often?” he asks.  

I smile. I know what he’s really asking. “What is a white girl doing at a show like this?” 

I admit that no, this isn’t my usual fair. I think that real answer would be even weirder than the whatever is going on in his head. “I’m just a theatre-nerd,” I shrug. 

Wish: Granted

Thank the theatre gods for BIG The Musical. 

I was beginning to get a bit worried here. 

The Dominion Theatre has been dark for a very long time. Since the first week of January. I’d meant to get myself to Bat out of Hell before it closed, but as the final performances loomed the prices shot up and there was no way I was paying 80 quid to see… whatever that musical was.  

The months rolled on. 

I’d walk past the shuttered venue, peering into the glooming looking foyer every time I walked down Tottenham Court Road, until I began to regret my cheapness. 

Eighty pounds wasn’t that bad. Not when the fate of an entire marathon rested on it. 

Prince of Egypt announced it wood be moving in. But not until 2020. 

I don’t mind admitting that I was getting a bit panicky. 

But then, blessed relief. BIG The Musical was coming to London for a limited season. I held out. Not buying a ticket. Cheapness gnawing at my heart once again. 

I needn’t have worried. TodayTix had my back. A 24-hour ticket offer. Fifteen quid to sit in the stalls. Not bad at all. 

So, yes, thank the theatre gods for BIG The Musical. But all hail TodayTix and their ticket offers. 

This is my first visit to the Dominion. Not only did I miss Batty, I also missed every other previous show. And by missed, I mean: actively avoided.  

So, it’ll be nice to get a good look at the place. 

As I approach the entrance, a bag checker mimes opening a bag and I take the hint. He doesn’t find anything of interest inside, so I’m allowed through. 

The foyer of the Dominion is huge. Double height. With a staircase either side leading over to a balcony overlooking the massive space below. It’s all red and cream and brass and really looks like that hotel in American Horror Story. I look up, fully expecting to see Lady Gaga selecting her victims from the cattle below. 

No such luck. 

In the centre of the lobby there are two podiums staffed by programme sellers. Or perhaps the more accurate description would be lecterns, so tall there’s a built in box at the back of the for the programme sellers to stand on. 

I still need to get my tickets, so I pass them and follow the sign to the box office. 

“Collecting?” asks a man in a suit who seems to be in charge of the queue. 

I tell him I am. 

“There’s a window free just past those people there,” he says, pointing the way, past the main box office, and into a tiny dark corridor with box office windows all down one wall. I’m not sure on the capacity of this place, but it’s built for scale, that’s for sure. 

I find the next free window, and give the box officer behind it my surname. 

“Do you have a confirmation email?” he asks. 

I mean, I do. But it’s from TodayTix, so there ain’t no reference numbers or anything. I bring it up all the same and hold it up to the glass for him to see. 

He squints at it. 

I wonder if I’m showing him the right bit. I have a look and scroll down to see if there’s more pertinent information going at the bottom of the email. 

“No, that’s fine,” he says. “I’ve got it.” 

And off he disappears to recover my ticket. 

Ticket in hand, it’s time to get me a programme. 

I go back to the lecterns. 

And stop. 

Because I have just spotted the price. 

Ten pounds. 

Ten actual British pounds. 

I know I shouldn’t be surprised by now. I’ve been lobbed with higher bills before. But still. Ten pounds. That’s a lot of money for a programme. 

“Do you take cards?” I ask one of the programme sellers, because of course your girl has not got a tenner on her. 

“Yes, but over at the other desk,” she says, pointing over to the other lectern. 

Okay then. 

I go over to the other side and get myself a programme, paying ten (ten!) pounds for it. 

There isn’t much else of interest going on out here, so I head back, down the steps, towards the stalls. 

There’s a merch shop down here. An actual, proper, shop. Not a desk tucked away in some corner. It’s full of BIG-branded stuff. T-shirts and sweatshirts and teddy bears and lanyards and mugs that might rival Sports Direct in their proportions. But I don’t pay attention to any of that, because I’ve just spotted something far more interesting. Over there. On the far side. It’s a Zoltar machine. And by the looks of it, it’s not just there for decoration.  

I go over. The sign stuck on the front says it’s two pounds for a go. Well, I just spent a tenner on a programme, I’m not about to wimp out on two quid on this. 

I get out my purse, find the coins, and then stare at the machine. Not sure how I’m meant to do this. I put them on the little slot and try to shove it in, but the slot ain’t having it. 

“Oh my god, someone’s having a go!” a young man standing nearby exclaims. 

“Trying to!” I exclaim right back. 

A woman comes over to have a look. “Here, I think they go in those slots,” she says. 

She’s right. They do go in those slots. 

A second later, Zoltar starts waving his hand and chattering on about it being better not to reveal too much and other mystic sayings. The pair of us stand there, watching him, until a full minute or so later, a fortune pops out. 

I have a look. 

Apparently, my lucky month is August, which is just great now that it’s September. Got a long way to go before my luck comes in. Hopefully I can hold out until then. 

Shoving the fortune into my pocket, I make for the entrance to the auditorium. 

“XX?” says the ticket checker. “Down this aisle and you’re on the left.” 

Turns out, row XX is really far back. The Dominion is one hell of a big theatre. I almost consider using those binoculars stuck to the bottom of the seat in order to see the stage. 

The rake isn’t great, with nothing but the most gentle slope happening between the rows, but the seats are at least offset, and I find myself with a great little view in between the heads of the people in front. 

My neighbour isn’t quite so content. 

Leaving her partner behind, she chivvies me out of the way to go and sit in one of the empty seats further into the row. 

A plan soon thwarted by the row in front starting to fill up. 

She moves further in. 

But the people sitting in front have the same idea, and a game of musical chairs starts up between them, as they all try and get an unobstructed view. 

The house lights buzz and flicker dramatically, and then go out. 

The show begins. 

These people clearly spent a lot of money here. The set is huge, with screens and multi-storey buildings and set changes between every song. 

A big set for a big theatre. Pity there isn’t the audience to match. 

Even with the £15 offer, it’s looking a bit thin back here. And judging from the very localised applause patterns, I’d say a good chunk sitting over on the far side work for the show. 

This is my cue to say something like: no matter, I’m having a good time. But the truth is: I’m not. I do like the film. It’s a great story. What it doesn’t need though, is songs. And they aren’t even very good songs. Not a banger in the mix. And seemingly written with the premise that everyone on stage needs to have a go. 

When that scene comes around, the one with the piano, the one that has made it into the show artwork, it is done via projection. And the notes that emerge have no relation to the movements of the performers. The big whoop from the contingent on the far side is taken up by the rest of the audience, but the enthusiasm isn’t there. It’s hard to get excited about a faked-up set piece. Half the joy of live theatre is the potential to go wrong. Knowing that the keys would light up, and the notes play, even if both key-hoppers sat down and shared a sandwich half-way through, doesn’t do much to get the old heart racing. 

Interval time. 

I get out my programme to see what ten pounds has bought me. 

Not a lot. 

I mean, sure, it’s massive. But content wise, there’s nothing there. Biogs. Production shots. That's it. Not even an article to read. 

For that price, I’d at least expect some fan service, like what Only Fools and Horses managed to do in there’s. But the closest this one has is asking the cast what their Zoltar wish would be. Not particularly inciteful, and honestly, best suited to a blog post. 

As people return from the interval, there’s a lot of seat hopping as everyone tries to upgrade themselves. 

I spot the separated couple six or seven rows ahead of me, now reunited. 

And I find myself in the happy position of having no one sitting in front of me.  

Sadly, it doesn’t do much for the show. 

But plod on we do, and the end eventually rolls around. 

During the curtain call, I lone woman stands. She waves at the cast. I think she must know one of them. 

But as we are launched into a truly unnecessary finale, more people stagger to their feet. Some to leave, others to ovate. 

I hold out until the cast members wave us goodbye, disappearing behind the rotating set. But as the band strikes up once more, I cannot stick it any longer. And make my escape.