After bidding goodbye to my intrepid theatre-pie tasters, it was time for me to head off to my next show.
Oh, you didn't think I was done for the day, did you? This is a four-show weekend, my friend. Five if you include Friday night's convoluted trip to the Barbican.
I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.
My next show was only down the road, in the basement of the Travelling Through bookshop.
This is my first bookshop if the marathon.
I've done the former library that is The Bush, and the library-library that is the London Library. But no bookshop.
Unless we count the Samuel French bookshop being based in the Royal Court, but I think we can all agree that we won't be doing that.
So, there we were. On Lower Marsh Street, about to find out if bring able to purchase the books on the shelves makes a difference to the theatre they surround.
Travelling Through is a very small shop. Or at least, that's how it feels when you are crammed shoulder to shoulder with the rest if the audience, as you wait for one of the Vault Festival ushers to check you in on their, by now familiar looking, tablets.
After Helen's comment at the Vaulty Towers, suggesting that waiting around while holding a pie was actually part of the show, I did wonder whether this close proximity to my fellow audience members was an attempt to show us what life was like for a book, tucked up on the shelf next to its brethren. But the house was soon opened and we filed downstairs, and I forgot all about it.
The little basement cafe is a cosy space. Long tables take up most of the room, but they'd managed to fit in enough tall poufs for us all to sit on. Each one topped with a freesheet, which was a nice touch. You don't see many of those in the Vault Festival, which is such a shame. And not just because I'm a paper freak. Even with the wonders of the internet housed in our hand, its surprisingly tricky to find out the names of people involved in shows without one. Everyone talks big game about programmes having had their day, but I think we've still got a while to go before I'm made redundant. I mean, they're made redundant. They. Not me. I can do other things than producing programmes. I swear. Please don't fire me.
At one end, a woman cradled a mug of tea. Somehow she'd managed to score an entire table to herself.
It was xxx. Our performer.
We all pretended not to notice.
"What's your view like," asked a glamorous looking woman as she took the pouf next to me.
I glanced over at xxx to assess the situation.
"Limited," I admitted.
She considered this. "I think I'll sit on my leg, " she said, tucking up one leg under her.Read More