Turns out, even puppet theatres obey my law of creepy locations.
I've told you about this before. The more dark and dangerous an alleyway, industrial estate, canal, or whatever other deserted and foreboding place you can think of, the more likely it is to contain a fringe theatre. And will you look at this right here. The Little Angel Theatre is tucked away down the bottom of a very dark and shadow-filled Dagmar Passage. And yeah, there might be Georgian buildings with lovely sash windows hugging it along both sides, and I might be walking across wide flagstones, but that's because we're in Islington. It doesn't change the fact that I am definitely about to be murdered. I mean, let's be real, sash windows and wide flagstones didn't put Jack the Ripper off now, did it?
I make it through though, and am not actually murdered. Which is good. I suppose.
The alley opens up into a wide square, with more smart Georgian houses and their sash windows. And off to one side, looking for all the world like a village church hall, is the Little Angel Theatre.
I've already been to their studios just a little down the road, and now it's time to check out the mothership. They finally, finally, have a show for grown ups. Which is a relief. Means I don't have to spend my evening surrounded by a bunch of six year olds that I'm not related to. I'm sure they are pretty stoked about not having to spend their evening with a mardy old lady.
Yeah, as if you couldn't tell, I'm not in the best of moods right now.
I'm ill.
Again.
Barely got over the last grot-fest before succumbing to this one.
What with starting my new job and all, it's no surprise that I'm a bit run down. But still. It would have been nice if I could have got a bit of a breather. A few weeks to recover. Catch up on the blog and all that. I'm already running two weeks behind. At this rate, I won't get this published until March.
Oh well, best crack on.
I go inside.
And stop.
I can't move.
It is absolutely packed in here.
I can see the box office counter just off to one side, but there's no way I can get anywhere close to it.
People are just standing arond. Some of them over by the bar, slightly futher in. A few, like me, trying to pick up their tickets.
But mostly, they're just chatting. Standing and nattering. Loudly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," calls out a front of houser over the din. "This is your five minute warning. The show will be beginning. Please take your seats."
I brace myself for the surge of people that will be pouring in my direction, but if this lot have heard the nice lady's warning, they have no intention of actually listening to it.
The chatter continues.
Great.
Looks like I'm going to have to dive head on into this mess.
I pushed forward, knocking elbows and bags as I squeeze myself forward towards the box office.
I find myself standing behind someone for a full two minutes before I realise he's already got his tickets and is just standing there for his own personal reasons.
I side-step him, avoiding any nearby toes as much as I can, and push myself into the sole scrap of empty space nearby. Which is thankfully located right in front of the box office.
"Hi!" I say, fighting to draw out what is left of my voice. "The surname's Smiles?"
"Yup!" says the box officer, looking down at her lists. There are three of them. Two handwritten. One printed. She finds me on the printed list and marks off my name. Looks like muggins here was one of the few people who actually paid to be here tonight.
I thought that was it. I was dismissed. But nope. The box officer starts picking up a pile of printed tickets and looks through them until she finds the one that belongs to me.
Gosh. I was not expecting that. It was all laminated admission passes at their studio. Things are done on a different level in the theatre.
I look around.
People still aren't moving.
Seems like it's down to me to set the example and show this lot how it's done.
I aim myself at the door to the theatre and go for it full force, almost falling out of the crowd on the other side.
"We're totally full tonight," says the ticket checker, trying not to look shocked at my dramatic appearance. "You can sit where ever you like, so please squash up."
A full house.
Oh dear.
One thing my cough does not like, is feeling crowded.
Well, not much I can do about that now.
I go in.
And gosh, it's all rather pretty in here. Reminds me of Jackson's Lane. Sort of.
The bare brick walls are painted a deep shade of green. The ceiling is vaulted with wooden beams and dotted with paper lanterns. There's bunting. Long wooden benches are covered in patchworked cushions.
It's charming as fuck.
I spot an empty bench near the back and head straight to it, tucking myself up at the far end.
As I sit down, my arm grazes against something hard, warm, and very knobbly.
I appear to have picked a radiator to be my neighbour.
I set about preparing myself for a warm evening. Jacket: off. Cardigan: off. Sleeves: rolled up.
There, that should do it.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the show will begin in a few minutes. So please take your seats. Thank you."
That got them.
People are coming in now.
"Can we move up?" asks a woman settling herself in my row.
"Yeah... sorry. There's a radiator," I say, making a show of touching it with my fingertips and instantly regretting it. "Sorry. I'll burn myself. It's really hot."
Besides that, I'm right on the end of the bench. There's no where for me to go.
The front of houser comes in and starts chivying us all to move down.
"But the radiator," says the woman in my row, gesturing over to me.
The front of houser retreats.
"The wanted us to make room for two people," says the woman turning to me with a look a horror.
I give an equally horrified look back. These benches aren't that long. And there are already four of us in here. One more, fine. But two... well, that's too much.
All suitably squeezed in, the front of houser stomps down to the front of the auditorium. There's some housekeeping rules she needs to tell us. Phones on silent, of course. The running time is one hour and fifteen minutes, but that does include an interval. "I think I said this to each of you on the way in," she goes on. "But if you have a wine glass, keep hold of them! The floor is raked so if you put the down, they will topple over and disturb the show."
"What was that about the floor?" whispers a man in my row.
"It's raked," says the horrified woman. "That means it has a slope to it." She demonstrates the slopped nature of the floor with a skiing hard gesture.
And that's it. We're ready to begin.
Can't remember what we're seeing, to be honest. I didn't get a freesheet.
I look around, sitting up tall in my seat to aid with my quest. Yeah, no one else has one either.
I rummage around in my bag and pull out the ticket. Roll Over Atlantic. That's the name of the show.
I wonder if it has puppets.
I hope it has puppets.
We are in a puppet theatre after all.
A man comes out.
He doesn't have any puppets.
He does have a rather wonderful Christopher Columbus costume though,
I know it's Christopher Columbus because he tells us it is.
"You can boo!" he tells us as we all dutifully clap at this announcement.
A few people attempt a panto-boo.
And so it goes on. Ole Columbo takes us with him on his adventures, in what feels like a low-budget Horrible Histories episode, despite this being, apparently, a show for adults.
A few scenes in, and Columbus isn't the only one in trouble. My cough is starting up again. The packed benches. The radiator. My lungs are not happy.
I reach down into my bag and grab my water bottle, chucking down as much as I can. It's not helping.
I try to time my coughs for the applause. For the loud bits. For anything that will help cover this atrocious hacking cough. But there aren't enough of them.
One man talking is not enough to compete with the mighty sound of my cough.
I shift on my bench, trying to get comfortable. But the backs are so low I can't even lean back without falling into a void.
It's no good. I have to get out of here.
Not now.
There is no way I'm escaping from this bench.
Just got to hold off until the interval. It can't be long. The entire show is barely more than an hour.
Columbus disappears behind the back curtain. I hold myself tight, willing him not to return, But nope, there he is again, popping out from the other side.
He waves his arms about, trying to encouage us to join in. "Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!" he says, for reasons that I can't work out because I'm too busy cough-cough-coughing.
He ducks behind the curtain once more and the theatre gods take pity on my, raising the house lights.
I lean forward and make a grab for my scarf and jacket.
"Do you want to get out?" asks the woman in my row, readying herself to stand up. "Cool off?"
"Yeah..." I say, winding the scarf around my neck and hefting up my bag. "I don't think a cough quite goes with this show. I think I'm going to make my escape."
"Awww," she says, sounding genuinely sorry for me. "Get well."
I slip out the row, stopping in the foyer just long enough to pull on my jacket and snap a photo of the box office, before escaping into the night.
There, in the freezing solitude of the square, I cough and cough and cough until my stomach aches and my throat is raw.
And then I begin the slow walk back to the tube station.