You can't just walk into the JW3 building.
The entrance is set back from the road and only accessible by crossing over a long bridge. Access to the bridge is through huge metal gate. A gate that is guarded by security.
"Bag check?" I ask the security guard as I approach. Probably best to at least show willing.
"Yes, please!" he says, clicking on his torch as I open my bag for him.
He pokes around inside, picking up a tissue-wrapped parcel.
"What's this, if I may ask?" he asks in a tone that mixes politeness and the promise of significantly less politeness in equal measure.
"Is a gift box," I tell him. "It's empty."
I just bought it at the Tiger down the road. The very nice sales assistant wrapped it in tissue so that it wouldn't get messed up in my bag. And I was too cheap to pay the 50 pee fee for a bag. On reflection, this was a mistake. As packages go, it does look a touch suspicious.
He turns it over, and discovers that it is, indeed, empty.
Convinced that I have no intentions of bombing the Jewish community centre, he steps back and lets me through.
I walk across the bridge.
Far below, a small ice rink has been built, and the last couple of kids skate around, protected by the high walls on all sides.
I pause to take a photo, but I don't want to hang around. I can feel the security guard keeping a close eye. I hurry over to the doors and go in.
There's a huge desk taking up one wall. That's the box office.
Over on the other side there are bookcases and huge floor cushions which a few kids are making full use of.
"Oh sorry," says one of the box officers, suddenly looking up and noticing me waiting.
"Hello! The surname's Smiles? S. M. I. L. E. S.?"
"Collecting tickets?"
"Yup."
She taps something into her computer. "First name?"
"Maxine. M. A. X. I. N. E." I say. I've got a bit of a cold again. The kind of cold that clogs up my voice. Always best to spell things out.
"That's one ticket," she says, handing it over.
I take it, a touch surprised. Given all the security I thought I might at least have to provide a bit of ID. But perhaps they already ran the background checks on me before I got here.
"Thanks, err, where am I going?"
Yup, I'm ashamed to say I have never been to JW3 before.
"It's in the Hall," says the box officer. "Down the stairs, to the left, and through the restaurant."
"Down. Left. Restaurant," I repeat. "Thanks!"
And off I go, down the stairs, and into the restaurant. And it's a proper restaurant, not a cafe. Bit annoying. I could have been tempted by a slice of cake. But nevermind.
I turn left. Keeping close to the wall as I pass tables heaving with people having their dinner.
Right at the end, there are doors, flanked either side by ushers. That must be the entrance to the Hall.
It's closed.
I'm early.
I look around.
There's nowhere to sit.
I'm in a restaurant.
I turn back, wondering whether I should go back upstairs to make use of those massive squashy floor cushions. But I'm too old to sprawl.
Over on the far side of the room are some doors leading outside to the courtyard.
I go out.
The last skaters are packing up and coming back in.
I'm all alone out here.
Headlights flash.
There's a car by the gate.
It waits, engine running, the lights so bright they make my blink.
The gate creaks open.
The car drives in.
I don't hang around to find out who's driving it. I go back inside.
The doors are open now.
A queue has formed, running all the way down the side of the restaurant.
I join it.
We move quickly.
"Thanks very much," says the ticket checker as he tears off the stub. "Enjoy!"
Inside I find myself walking down the side of a seating bank until I reach the front.
It's busy tonight.
People wearing lanyards scuttle about the front, getting in the way and yet not directing anyone.
I squeeze through them as they hold hurried conversations. They don't even look up.
I start climbing, trying to find a seat.
The back few rows have been cordoned off with a rope, and I slip into one of the last rows.
The seats are a mixture of singles and doubles. I pick a double, and send up a short prayer to the theatre gods that I won't have to share it with anyone.
From here I can see tens of heads wearing kippahs. I can't remember the last time I saw a man wearing a kippah in the theatre, let alone so many at once.
That's not the only thing that's done differently here.
A woman comes in, carrying a takeaway box from the restaurant. By the smell, the contents is warm and savoury. She also has a fork.
Now, I appreciate that being around your own people makes you feel safe enough to wear religious clothing. But hot food? In a theatre? Truly that is an abomination.
She sidles into the row in front of me and she points at an empty chair.
"Can I just reserve this one?" says the man sitting next to the empty seat.
She nods and moves one along.
It's a double-wide.
"Is this for one or two?" she asks.
"There are lots of seats," comes the confused reply of the seat-saver.
"But is this for two? Or can I have it myself...?"
"If you like...?"
She sits, but as the row begins to fill up, she changes her mind.
Coat and bag are swung over the back of the seat into my row. Next comes her umbrella. Then her dinner.
Finally, she climbs over.
As she organises herself, she places her takeaway down on my double-wide. I stare at it, faintly disgusted but also really hungry.
I miss eating dinner.
Eventually, the takeaway box is removed.
But I soon find something else trying to my friends with my knees.
An elbow.
It's draping over the back of the seat in front.
I shift my legs to one side, but it's no good. This girl is doing to full flirt-stretch over her date for the evening. I can tell it's a date because as well as the arm, she's also fluffing up her curls and tipping back her head to laugh.
An action that means that my knees aren't just getting elbowed, they are getting blanketed by hair.
I'm beginning to doubt that these are my people.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to start, if you can take your seats."
A woman appears on stage. She introduces herself. She's the programmer at JW3.
She introduces another woman. Who in turn introduces our performer for the evening. A little excessive on the whole introduction front, but this is an industry that attracts people who like talking, so I suppose we should be supportive of that.
Anyway, the show for the evening is about conspiracy theories. Which sounds fun.
Antisemitic conspiracy theories.
Which sounds less fun.
As the target of Marlon Solomon's exposition narrows to the Labour party... I begin to grow uncomfortable.
I've made it no secret from you that I'm Jewish. Nor that I vote Labour.
And I can tell you now that my family have, in turn, not made a secret of how little they approve of my political affiliations.
I've been called a race traitor. I've been told that I voted for Hitler. I've been told I should be shot for voting Labour.
Shot.
Shot!
Thank gawd for strict gun laws, eh?
So, yeah. I'm feeling a little awkward in this room right now. With these people, who are my people. And yet...
Solomon tells us that he never feels more Jewish than when his Jewishness is under attack.
I get that. I've felt that.
I've never felt less Jewish than in this room.
I've never felt more left wing.
Solomon tells us that he's lost work though his calling out of antisemitism in the Labour party.
I can believe it.
My family likes to say that I'm a lefty liberal because that's what I'm surrounded by in theatre. But the truth is, it's the other way around. I went to work in theatre because I wanted to surround myself with lefty liberals.
That's where I feel comfortable.
But I've heard plenty of suspect shit over the years.
Like an old co-worker, who I won't name because... well, the arts is a small world… anyway, when I told them I had dual nationality with Britain and Israel, they quickly informed me that the reason they were anti-Israel, no, wait, scrap that, the reason they had to be anti-Israel, was that their father was posted there with the army. The British army. A statement I've thought a lot about over the intervening years, and yet it still baffles me as much now as it did then. Both in its content and the need to tell me.
Another co-worker, who I won't name because she's a dear friend and an absolute darling, once gigglingly asked me if I had heard of David Icke. She had been listening to his stuff and thought he was fascinating. Lizard people! Fancy. I told her that she should stop listening to David Icke. Because David Icke is well-known as a antisemite. I don't know if she took my advice. I hope she did.
Then there was Falsetto-gate. Which was never resolved, or explained, or even defended.
Oh, and that thing at the Tricycle theatre. Do you remember that thing at the Tricycle theatre? Back when it was the Tricycle and not the Kiln? They pulled an entire film festival, a Jewish film festival, because it recieved funding by the Israeli embassy.
I mean, of all things to boycott, art seems to me like it should be last on the list.
I was lucky enough to be employed somewhere where a lot of Israeli artists were (and are) invited to bring their work on the regular. But when they came there was also the question "who is funding it?” and then bracing ourselves for protests if the answer wasn't one acceptable to the right-thinking-left. There never were protests. Not while I was there. I'm not sure I could have coped with it if there was.
Perhaps we avoided it because the Israeliness of these artists was always downplayed
I was asked, more than once, to remove a reference to these artists' nationality from marketing copy.
It's a weird thing, being asked to scrub out the name of a country that you hold a passport for. Lest it spark trouble.
I was never required to do that with artists from any other nation.
Time for questions.
"Now there's been the little matter of the general election," says someone in the front row who has seen the show three times now. "And Corbyn will be spending a lot more time on his allotment..."
"Thank gawd," stage whispers the woman sitting next to me.
Thank gawd.
Thank gawd.
I don't hear the rest of the question.
I'm shifting in my seat, desperate to get out of here.
I have never felt more uncomfortable in all my life.
The arts is very left. This is true. And like Solomon, this is where I feel my most Jewish. But sitting here in JW3, or having dinner with my family, that's when I'm most socialist.
The questions finish.
People start getting up to put on their coats.
One of the introducers from the beginning comes back on stage and starts doing an outro.
I just want to get out of here.
The couple next to me are taking their time leaving, sorting through all their bags and pockets, clearly with nowhere else to be.
The bloke looks up and sees me waiting.
"Shall we move?" he suggests. "People want to leave."
People do want to leave.
As soon as they pick up their stuff I'm out, speeding down the steps, around the seating block, through the door, down past the restaurant, up the stairs, across the foyer and back across that bridge.
Theatre was supposed to be my safe place, and I have never felt more attacked.
As I hurry down to the bus stop, I feverishly type notes into my phone.
On the bus ride back through Golders Green and back to Finchley, I try to make sense of my feelings.
I don't think they've changed.
I don't regret voting Labour in the last election.
I just really hope that I never have to.