I'm on my way to the Tabernacle.
It's been a long time coming. Eleven months I've been trying to find a marathon-qualifying event to book myself onto. Every few weeks I've gone on their website, only to find endless listings for Gong Baths, which I'm still not entirely convinced are a real thing. Things were looking up over the summer when some sand artist was putting on a show. But a few days after purchasing my ticket, I was sent a refund. No explanation. Just that. The refund.
I figured they must have found me out and decided they didn't want a mediocre theatre blogger in their midst, but a couple of days after that, the Tabernacle's website was updated. The show had been cancelled.
On the plus side, they did have a load of plays programmed in.
In Russian.
I have no problems with seeing theatre in the foreign, but these ones didn't have surtitles.
And I'm already seen my fill of Russian theatre this year. Didn't even get a blog post out of it. It was a repeat visit.
I held out.
And held out.
And held out.
And eventually, the waiting paid off.
The Portobello Panto was in for Christmas.
Now, I hadn't heard of the Portobello Panto, but after some Googling, I found out the apparently, it's quite the thing. Celebrities have been known to turn up. Sometimes even on stage. But it's not about them. It's made by the locals, for locals. And yadda yadda yadda, it's all super heartwarming.
So obviously I'm got my shoulders set, ready and waiting to cast a withering, cynical gaze over the whole enterprise.
But as I pass through the high iron gates, and find myself in a courtyard, in the shadow of a huge, red brick temple, complete with curved frontage and turrets rising up from the party-hat roof, I realise that I've actually been here before. With Allison.
It was to see a Bush theatre production. About boxing. What was it called? The Royale? Something like that.
Anyway, I'm back.
And as I step through the glass doors and into a bustling marketplace, I manage to hold back my surprise.
Yes, I remember this.
Stalls butt against the entrance as they compete for space. Beaded jewellery spreads out on tables and people hover as they take try and get their Christmas shopping done before the show.
Beyond the tables is the cafe, borded on one side by a well stocked bookcase, and on the other by a row of squashy-looking booths.
I ignore all this and head straight to the box office.
There's a bit of a queue going on. It's a sold out show this afternoon. As is the entire run. And by the looks of it, it's not just families wanting to take their little ones for a bit of festive entertainment. Oh no. This lot are young, and sporting the kind of cool haircuts and interesting earrings that are usually found in the wilds of Dalston.
Each of them Ooos and Ahhs over the programmes, and almost all of them dive into their wallets to hand over the two quid and walk away with one of the handsomely illustrated booklets.
Eventually, it's my turn.
"Yes?" asks the box officer who is clearly having a bit of a day.
"Hi. The surname's Smiles?"
"Smiles?"
"Yeah." I spell it out for him. "S. M. I. L. E. S."
He looks down at his list. Turns it over. Looks again. Then moves over to the second bit of paper.
I'm not there.
"You bought online?" he asks.
"Yes."
"And it's spelt…?"
"Exactly as you'd think it's spelt. I have the confirmation email if that helps?"
"Yeah," he nods. "Just to see how the name's written. Then I can see it."
I bring up the e-ticket, zoom in on my name, and show him.
"How many was it?" he asks.
"One."
He grabs a wristband from the pile and hands it to me.
"Yes?" he says to the next person in line.
"Umm," I say, interrupting. "Can I get a programme?"
He glances over. "Yeah, one pound or two. Whatever you want..."
I take two pound coins out of my purse and lay them down on the counter before taking one of the programmes from the display.
The box officer is already handing out more wristbands.
I find an empty corner where I can put on the wristband. It's orange. With TABERNACLE printed along it in blocky capitals. These things are tricky, but I just about manage it, and flash it to the staff on the door before heading up the stairs towards the theatre.
I have to step back as young families scuttle out of the theatre entrance for one more trip to the loos before things get started, but after a few aborted starts, I get myself in. The stage has been set up at one end, with the rest of the pit filled with a seating bank. Around the edge is an ornate slim balcony of slip seats.
I climb my way towards the back. I have no idea what to expect from a Notting Hill take on pantomime, but I am pretty sure that I don't want to be near the front.
I slip into the third row from the back.
A very well-dressed family is taking up the middle seats.
"Sorry, is there anyone here?" I ask one of the grown ups who has clearly spent a good deal at the hairdressers to get the shiny blow-out she is sporting.
She doesn't even look around.
"Sorry," I say, trying again. "Is there anyone here?"
This time she glances in my direction. "Noooo," she says in the primest West London accent I have ever heard in my life.
So I take the seat next to her.
Usually I'd leave a buffer, but as we know, this place is sold out, and I doubt there will be any other people here on their lonesome. So Ms Blowout is going to have to content herself with having to sit next to a North London scruff for the next few hours.
The band is already playing from their corner next to the stage and the air is filled with chatter as people lean over the rows to say hello to each other.
A family with young children comes in to take the seats on the other side of me.
A small boy holds down the flip seat for his mother.
Her hands full of coats and bags she makes to sit down.
The boy let goes.
The mum falls heavily to the ground.
All around hands grasp out to help her get back to her feet.
She's okay.
That excitement over, I inspect the set.
A sign marks out the presence of a Polling Station.
Something tells me this panto is going to get political.
A boy runs over to his seat. He's wearing a EU-themed Christmas jumper.
A tech person appears on stage, drink still in hand as he fiddles around with the street lamp.
"Remember to put your phones on silent," whispers a woman sitting behind me.
"It's a panto," comes the laughing reply. "No one will care."
The band finish their jam and the audience claps and whistles in appreciation.
The lights dim.
A man in a waistcoat comes out to introduce the show. A Christmas Carol. Not prime fodder for a panto, I would have thought, but here we are. He gives us a few instructions. Remember to boo the baddies and all that panto-stuff. The children give a quick demonstration of their booing skills, and we're off.
Into the world of fast fashion, where Ms Scrooge, in a floor length taffeta skirt and oversized glasses, presides over a clothing brand which relies on quick turnaround and unpaid labour.
Blowout-lady wriggles out of her coat, giving me a good bash with her elbow as she does so.
We journey to the Cratchett's home, where Tiny Tim sings us out with the plaintive 'Don't look back in hunger' after this family have insisted that 'Scroogey can wait.'
As the interval starts, my chair wobbles. Someone is climbing into my row. I stand up to let them pass.
The chair wobbles again. Someone else is clambering over. I stand to let them pass too.
Of all the things I've been getting annoyed by on this marathon, people insisting on having strangers stand up so that their friends don't have to move is the one that makes my blood boil the most.
I turn around, ready to glare at these lazy layabouts, and find myself staring at a row of tiny babies, resting peacefully in their parents’ arms.
There are three of them. All tiny.
"How old is she?" asks someone stopping next to the row of sleeping tots to admire the preciousness.
"Four months, but she was two months premature."
"So tiny!"
She is tiny. The tiniest baby I have ever seen in a theatre.
One of the mums returns, slipping into my row and leaning over to check on her child.
"Is she wet?" she asks.
"She just made," replies the dad.
I lean away, suddenly considerably less enamoured with these miniature humans.
"Are you okay?" asks the dad bending over the bundle. "Oh dear. A bit of vom."
I scoot forward in my seat. I definitely do not want to be close to that.
I get out the programme and have a look. The cast list is massive. And right at the end, there is the promise of a special guest playing the role of the fashion buyer. That's exciting.
People are starting to come back in. Every time I stand up to let people past the row of chairs leans back alarmingly as the unsecured feet rise up from the floor.
One of the blokes sitting behind puts out his arm to stop it encroaching on the babies.
“Is that mum's jacket?" asks a teenage girl, pointing down at my coat.
"No, that's mine," I tell her.
"Oh. Right," she says, but she keeps an eye on it all the same, until her sister recovers her mother's actual coat from under the seats and pulls it to safety.
"They must be mortified round here," says a woman as she takes her seat near me. "Because the Conservatives got in."
"There was a swing to Tory," agrees her friend.
"They showed a map of London and it was all red except this area."
And Finchley. Don't forget Finchley.
I would rather forget Finchley.
"They hated Corbyn though."
"To think this area is the area of Grenfell. It's just tragic."
It is. I saw Grenfell on my way here. Still there. Still looming. Still devastating.
One if the teenage girls starts inching her way down our row. I stand to let her past but she waves me back into my seat. "It's fine, I'm not going...," she says before plonking herself down in her mother's lap and winding her arms around her neck, messing up that salon-coiffure.
Her mother doesn't seem to mind.
The second act starts.
Things are really getting bad. Cratchett has lost his job. A sweatshop is being built right in Ladbroke Grove. And poor Scroogey is getting all these scary apparitions creeping into her bedroom.
And the special guest turns out to be a young man in a highlight pink suit.
The two men sitting in front of me turn to each other with a look of confusion.
"I think..." starts one...
But the special guest has already read his lines off the back of his folding fan, and has disappeared back off stage.
Soon enough, we are all clapping along to some Christmas song.
The cast are all introduced and each in turn steps forward to get their applause. Everyone has given their time for free and the ticket sales all go to charity.
Our special guest turns out to be called Tom Pomfrey (or possibly Pomfret?) which doesn't help me at all. I suspect I'm not cool enough to know who he is.
"A big cheer for this amazing little thing!" says one of the cast members, pointing down to a tiny toddler who is bouncing around in the front row, having the best time of his life.
The cast member leans down to pick the tiny toddler up, but finding himself on stage, the tiny toddler promptly bursts into tears.
But they don't last for long, and soon half the under-fives in the audience have found their way onto the stage to dance along with the cast.
And we are sent out into the real world with Scrooge's final message: "The real meaning of Christmas... is to change the awful people."
And on that note, I'm off to have dinner with my family.