Is it normal to feel quite so queasy on New Year’s Eve?

Let me rephrase that.

Is it normal to feel this nauseated before going out drinking?

I mean, seriously. Have you thought about the logistics of visiting every theatre in London within a single year? That’s 5 shows a week, for 52 weeks. In a row. No weeks off to go lie on a beach far away from any soliloquy beyond: can you make me another of those delicious daiquiris?

233 shows. In 356 days.

I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

And it’s not just the time constraints (although let’s not ever forget the time constraints). There’s so many other things I need to consider. Like… am I ever going to eat dinner again? What is my stance on re-visiting a theatre if they programme a show that I really really want to see? What about immersive theatre? Do I really have to put myself through that? How the heck am I going to get tickets to Hamilton? And do I need to see both parts of Cursed Child? And how am I going to pay for all these tickets?

Oh yeah… how am I going to pay for all those tickets?

That’s not a rhetorical question. I’m really asking.

I guess it’s homemade sandwiches for lunch for the duration.

And let’s not forget the programmes.

Oh my god… the programmes.

I love theatre programmes.

I make theatre programmes.

For a living. That’s my job.

I can’t even remember the last time I went to the theatre and didn’t come away with a programme. It must be years.

There is no a play out there bad enough for me not to want a programme.

The 6 (six) 35 litre plastic containers I own, so filled with programmes that the lids don’t fasten down, are testament to this fact. And now my papery children are about to be joined by another 233 brothers and sisters.

Where on earth am I going to put them?

And more pressingly, how am I going to pay for them?

If each of those 233 programmes costs £5 (a conservative estimate given the price of programmes in the West End) that’s going to work out at… oh god…

£1165.

Over a thousand pounds spent on programmes before the year is out.

I’m going to need a second job.

Or a second mortgage.

Not that I even have a first mortgage. I spent my deposit on friggin’ theatre programmes and avocado toast.

I think I might have just made the biggest mistake of my life.

So, please do excuse me will I barf into this bucket.

And then down a bottle of gin.