I'm standing in the foyer of the Barbican Centre and I am stumped. Completely, and utterly, stumped.
Now, that's not an unusual feeling to be having in the Barbican Centre. This place is a warren. Turn a wrong corner and you'll find yourself being welcomed into a lost tribe of Dutch theatre-goers, unseen by the world since 1978.
There are so many levels, and half-levels, and staircases that you need to climb in order to go back down again somewhere else, I swear this place was built in order to protect London from invading hoards. Just like when road signs were taken down during the war to confuse the Nazis.
Except, even with the signs very much intact, I'm still competly, and utterly, stumped.
I can see the box office, that's in front of me. One end for the Hall. The other for the Theatre. I get that.
What I don't understand is where I'm supposed to go to pick up my ticket for The Pit. Because that's where I am going tonight. If I can figure out where the hell it is.
After much soul-searching, I decide there's only one course of action I can take. It's not a great one, but at this point, I can see no other choice. I'm going to have to ask.
"Hi," I say at the box office counter. The Hall end. "Where's the box office for The Pit?"
“Ah!" says the box officer. "That's a bit further on. You see the concrete pillar over there?”
I turn around and look where she's pointing. There is indeed a massive concrete pillar. Hard to miss. It's as big as a house.
“Go past that," she says. "Through the glass doors on the other side, across, and take the lift to minus two."
"Two floors down?" I ask, just to confirm, although I think I know where she means. Well, I know where the lifts are, anyway.
She nods.
Two floors down.
Okay then. Let's go.
I follow her directions, going around the concrete pillar, through the glass doors, across the funny underground road, and through the glass doors on the other side.
I ignore the lifts and push through the doors into the stairwell.
Because I'm a rebel, me.
Good thing the Barbican's architecture rewards such diligence. A rather grim, almost car-park like, staircase is made ethereal by the flooding in of azure blue light, bouncing off the many mirrors set up at strange and disconcerting angles.
As I reach the bottom, I find myself in the cinema bit of the Barbican. I'm never been in the cinema bit. I'm a bit useless about keeping up with films at the best of times, I ain't never been to the Barbican to see one.
I look around.
There's a desk set up near the entrance, but somehow I don't think that's what I'm after.
I keep on walking, and yup, there it is. The box office. Handily signposted with a great big "tickets" above the lozenge cut out - shaped like a smartphone with all those rounded corners and shiny walls.
"Hi!" I say, bouncing up to the counter. "The surname's Smiles?"
"Smiles!" repeats the box officer. "That's such a nice name!"
"Thanks," I say, shrugging nonchalantly, but I can't stop myself from grinning. It never gets old.
"Is that Max?" she asks, moving on swiftly from the surname fangirling.
It is Max. I get my ticket and the receipt and all that stuff and go to find somewhere to sit down.
There's a bar against the back wall. It looks well smart, back-lit by a set of warm yellow light-boxes. No one seems particularly interested in that.
I find one of the soft benches and get comfortable.
The entrance to The Pit is just opposite. It's not open yet, but I don't want to plonk myself too far away because it's unallocated seating. And I don't fancy getting stuck at the back of the queue.
"Hellooooooo," calls a woman from across the way, as she spots someone she recognises. "I got my shoes off!”
She does have her shoes off. She extends her legs out in front of her, demonstrating the lack of shoe-ness. "It's been a long day," she explains.
I'm sure.
Over by the door to the theatre, there's some movement. A general getting-readiness.
We all begin to get up. Not quickly. No one wants to start a panic. But there's a slow shift, a picking up of bags, a movement towards the doors.
I find myself standing in a very loosely defined line. Not exactly a queue. No one wants to admit they're in a queue. We all just want to be as close to the doors as possible when they open.
As the elastic ribbon of the barriers pings back, we begin our shuffle forward. Our very slow shuffle forward.
Slow enough for me to read the sign advising us that the show we're seeing has had to be rejigged due to the injury of one of the performers.
We're getting our bags checked.
Which is a first for me.
Not having my bag checked. Obviously. I've long grown used to that particular indignity.
I mean having to display the innards of said bag in queue to get our tickets checked. As if a terrorist would have his heart set on blowing up the Pit, and would turn up his nose at the foyer.
The contents of my bag is deemed acceptable, and my ticket passes muster too. So in I go. Down a short corridor, round a corner, and through another set of doors, marked up with slightly less chirpy signage that its foyer friend: The Pit Theatre.
It's dark in here. As you'd expect from a theatre named after a hole in the ground, but there the similarities end.
It's big. Okay, not Coliseum big, but that's quite a sizable stage going on over there.
One side is taken over by a wall of spotlights, all pointed directly at us as we round the bank of seating.
I climb back to my favourite row. You know the one. The third. Just far enough away that I don't feel like I'm sitting on the stage, and out of the way of all low-flying interaction.
Don't think I'm in danger of that tonight. But still. I'm here to see SUPERFAN: Nosedive. Not sure exactly what that is, but I've seen the reviews popping up and they haven't been overly great. Not that that means much. I disagree with the critics plenty. But still.
A woman comes and sits next to me. Right next to me. Leaving empty seats on either side of us.
She gets out a book, cracks it open, and starts reading.
That must be one hell of a good book.
I glance at the cover.
It's Dracula.
Ergh.
I can't be having with that.
It might be a surprise for you to find out that I'm not a SUPERFAN of the most famous vampire novel ever written, but there you go. I tried rereading a couple of years back and could not get through it again. The letter where Lucy begs Mina not to tell anyone that she had received three proposals that day, except Jonathon, because of course a wife should not keep anything from her husband, even her friends' secrets, put me right off.
When she goes on to say that she thinks men are so noble-hearted in the face of women, who are all just too silly, well... that's where me and Bram Stoker parted ways for good.
Anyway, the rest of the audience are indulging in more normal pursuits. That is: trying to capture the perfect Instagram shot of the wall of lights.
Friends lean over to one another to show each other their efforts.
All of them are better than mine.
Sorry about that.
You'll just have to accept my word for it that the lights are much more impressive than my photography skills are capable of showing off.
Oh well. Phones away.
A man is lying on the ground. On his stomach. He's struggling. Flopping about like a dying fish.
Something tells me this show is going to be weird.
A few more performers appear to watch the man's struggles. Can't tell you who they are. You may have noticed that no one has attempted to give me a freesheet. And you know the rules: no freesheet, no credits. I ain't looking up nobody on the internet.
So I can't tell you who any of these people are. Nor the identity of the two kids who come out to join in the weirdness. I guess all I have to do now is sit back and try to work out what's going on for myself.
By the end, I'm none the wiser. If there was a theme, or a narrative, it eluded me completely
Oh well.
That's the Barbican done at least.
Now... how do I get out of here?