The importance of being invisible

There’s a school of thought amongst theatre-people, or more specifically, theatre-journalists, that arts venues should be integrated into the daily lives of the community. Not just serving the locals, but being right there, amongst them, in the most literal, physical sense.

The Guardian for one have been banging on about it for a decade now. Ever since the financial crisis - just over ten years ago. Get all those empty high street shops, and hand them over to some artists to play with.

Which, I suppose, is exactly what Tara Theatre did. Except 20-odd years before we’d even heard of sub-prime mortgages.

Before Tara Theatre was Tara Theatre is was a chiropodists. And before that an opticians. And before that, a drapers.

I know all this because I looked it up.  Because it was the least theatre looking theatre I'd ever seen. And I've been to a theatre on a barge.

Part of a terrace of shops, and still sporting its large shop window, it blends in nicely with all the other businesses on Garrett Lane.

Which may go some way to explaining how I managed to walk right past it. Twice.

Thankfully, I was alone in my lack of geographical awareness, as the foyer was packed when I did eventually manage to fgure out that this lovely well-lit cafe was actually a lovely well-lit theatre.

To be fair to me though, as theatres go, the cafe elements are strong in this one.

From the bank of bottles behind the box office, to the neat little table and chairs in front of that window, to the reading nook, and the jar of cookies on the counter.

I stared at the cookies while I waited to collect my ticket.

They looked good. They looked really good.

They had Smarties on them.

Thankfully, just as I was about to break out my purse, the queue cleared and I was next in line.

Ticket acquired it was time to explore.

Which, given that the front of house areas are all fitted into a floor space meant to contain a drapers, takes a surprisingly long time. Most of which was taken up by the tiny garden. Covered by a Mark of Zorro of multi-coloured fairy lights and dotted with small tables and chairs, the Tara terrace really is the most delightful spot. Even if the frighteningly warm February weather had forsaken us and a more appropriately spring-like chill had taken over.

 “Another big set of Indian doors,” cried out a woman as she stepped out into garden. “Look!”

The man she was with looked as he was bid, and then, without another word, they both turned around and walked back inside.

The doors were very impressive. As were the ornaments that decorated the walls, high enough that they blocked any hint of the busy street beyond. I can just imagine it would be the perfect place to bask in the summer.

Not so much in February. But I basked anyway.

It was almost a shame to say goodbye to it and head into the theatre.

The huge, carved Indian doors that lead through to the theatre space had been flung open.

With the bare brick walls and high ceilings, it could have looked like any fringe venue in London. But trust old Tara to do things differently. High up on the walls are massive carved shutters, sitting on runners just waiting to be pulled back by bright red ropes.

As I snapped some photos, something else red caught my attention.

A paper napkin. Doing its very best to envelop the thickest cookie I had ever seen in my life. It was topped with Smarties.

My row was filling up. There was no way to get out without disturbing them. I was stuck in my seat. Without a cookie.

The cookie owner sat in the row in front of me. I stared at his cookie longingly, regretting every life decision that are led to me sitting there, cookie-less.

Just as I was thinking these thoughts, the cast came in (all two of them), introduced themselves (as Ayesha and Kudzanayi) built the set (put up a banner), introduced the play (The Importance of Being Earnest), and started shaking hands. 

Oh. 

That wasn't a good sign. 

Hand shaking this early on was a clear indication that there would be high levels of interaction later on. 

I was right. 

The hand shaking was followed up by the offer of invisible cucumber sandwiches to those sitting in the front row.

I was not in the front row. 

I did not get an invisible cucumber sandwich. 

Don't get me wrong. I would rather not have an invisible cucumber sandwich, but if I did get one, I'm fairly certain I would have eaten it.

Whether it was extreme politeness or some other reason, every single person in the front row took a sandwich and then abstained from eating it. I don't know what happened to them (it's hard to keep track of invisible foodstuffs) but I like to imagine that they all got swept away at the end of the night.

"Untouched, again!" the stage manager would say with a disapproving shake of her head. "Such a waste." And then with a heavy sigh they'll be disposed of in the brown bin.

Anyway, more fool them I say, because the front row was soon called upon to provide all sorts of assistance, and they could have done with the sustenance. From acting the flowers to Cecily's watering can, to playing actual roles with actual lines, this was a production that involved getting, well, involved

So much so that the house lights stayed on throughout, in an artistic decision that theatre people might call "shared light," (in that the actors are working by the same light the audience are in) but around here I call "really fucking uncomfortable."

I froze, and prayed to the theatre gods that Ayesha and Kudzanayi wouldn’t need to look deeper into the audience for their helpers.

It was very stressful maintaining such stillness. Especially when you need to laugh.

That is, until the tongue clicking started. 

Both determined to fill the role of Lady Bracknell and resigned to sharing it, Kudzanayi Chiwawa and Ayesha Casely-Hayford both gave her a characteristic cluck that sent tingles racing across my scalp. Yup, for the second time in this marathon, I'd had my ASMR triggered by a play.

So relaxing. I unfroze and allowed myself to laugh along properly.

Which certainly helped distract me from the sight of the young man sharing his cookie with his companion. 

That cookie really did look very good.

Although, saying that, it does strike me as a strange sort of snack to have in the theatre. Can't think why though. My reasoning is probably based on it not being a traditional theatre foodstuff, like ice cream and overpriced wine. If I started seeing cookies consumed around the West End, no doubt I would thinl it perfectly normal in a matter of months. I mean, it's quiet, self contained, and doesn't cause too many crumbs. Why shouldn't we all eat cookies to accompany our play watching? 

Nicki, who you might remember from the Adelphi pie-eating-trip, regularly sneaks baked goods into theatres. I say sneaked, but according to her, the bag checkers wave them through easily enough. They're on the lookout for sandwiches. No. Seriously. That's what they've told her. Fondant Fancies are fine, but baguettes are banned. 

No mention on the status of invisible sandwiches. Presumably they get through without being spotted.

The play over, I retraced my steps, trying to get the photos I'd missed on the way in. 

Two months into my marathon and I've become very brazen. I even asked an usher to move so that I could get a photo of those carved wooden doors.

Once I'd thoroughly annoyed everyone, in was time to go. 

But, I still had one bit of unfinished business to take care of.

"How much is the cookie?" I asked at the bar.

"£1."

Well, that settled that then. I was having me one of those.

"Having a cookie?" laughed a perfectly strange man as I tucked it away in my bag. 

Honestly, I don't see why anyone is interested in what people do or do not choose to eat. As if they have nothing better to occupy their thoughts with...

Pixel this

Praise the theatre gods, I got a new phone!

No more will you have to suffer through my dimly lit snapshots.

I’m sad to see my HTC go, but it was time. He was suffering. He couldn’t stay awake while not supping on a charger, and his camera whirred and clicked every-time he tried to use it. It was a cruelty to keep toting him around with me to the theatre every night. RID, my friend. Rest in a drawer.

And, not to sound cruel, but once I’d made the decision to let him go, I didn’t hang around for long before getting a new one. I was off to Argos before work and treated myself to a Pixel. Gen 2. I’m not made of money. But still, they’re known for the quality of their pics taken in low-lighting, which is just what I need for this marathon. Theatres tend to be dark places.

And, oh baby. What a difference it makes. I spent the entirety of my walk to Wilton’s Music Hall taking pictures of, well everything - street signs, architectural details, graffiti…

What? Okay, okay, okay. I hear you. No, seriously, I do. “What are you blathering on about, Maxine?” you say. “is this a sponsored post? Are they paying you, Max? Have you sold out? Stop with the corporate shilling and start writing about Wilton's Music Hall. I love Wilton's Music Hall!"

Yeah, well. I already knew that. 

And you know how I know? 

Because everyone loves Wilton's Music Hall. It's the default emotional setting when you think about that place. Not loving Wilton's Music Hall is like not liking puppies. Or chocolate. "Do you like Wilton's Music Hall?" is probably one of the six questions on the Levenson Self-Report Psychopathy Scale (the other five are just: Are you sure you don't like it? No, but really? Have you even been there? Final answer? Okay, but what are your thoughts on puppies?

You know what people said when I told them I was heading off to Wilton's for the evening? "I loooovve Wilton's."

Every. Single. Time.

And every single time it was said exactly like that. With the elongated looooovvvve.

After a while, I began to feel like I was stuck in an episode of Russian Doll, but with less dying and smaller hair.

So what I’m saying is - don't be thinking you're original.

Ya Basic.

We all love Wilton's Music Hall. It’s the pumpkin spice latte of theatres. Mostly because it turns us into a gaggle of overexcited Valley Girls when we talk about it.

And don’t worry. I’m not exempt from the love fest. I’m right there with you. Metaphorical iPhone in hand (I told you about the Pixel, right?), and not quite so metaphorical Ugg boots on my feet.

When I finally traipsed all the way over the Whitechapel I spent countless minutes taking photos of the exterior, with its heavy red-painted shutters, huge double doors and flipping massive carriage lamp.

Everything about Wilton’s seems oversized. Even the alley it lives in is as wide as a boulevard. Standing outside it you feel like you’ve been transported to a model village, where the scaling is just ever-so slightly off. The details made too big to accommodate their maker’s clumsy human hands.

Feeling like the Major of Toy Town, I pushed the door open.

Inside, low ceilings combined with bare stone walls and a creaking staircase to give the air of a provincial castle. Iron bars block off wall apertures that could surely have imprisoned a witch in another age. Shadows dart around corners, giving the constant nagging thought that there’s a sword-fight happening just out of sight.

Perhaps they were, as I was there to see Pirates of Penzance, there might well have been some last minute rehearsals going on backstage.

Although it’s hard to imagine anyone smashing a sword on a person's head in this place. Everyone is so damn happy.

Whether I was blocking their access to cupboards, or sneaking into the balcony so that I could take some photos from up there, everyone went out of their way to be kind and gentle and apologetic.

Apologising to m. As if I wasn't the irritating twerp with a new phone, getting in their way. 

I was beginning to think the powers that be at Wilton's, Mister Wilton if you will, must be putting something in the water.

I was there on a press ticket, and with it I’d been given a drinks voucher.

Did I dare use it? Would I come out of there humming Gilbert and Sullivan and wishing my gallant crew a good morning?

I really should, I thought, trying to convince myself. It’s all part of the experience, ain’t it? If I can review interval pie, then I should damn well review pre-show wine.

But I like pie. And I don’t like wine.

I stared at the voucher a good long time before deciding I wasn’t going to risk it. I was heading straight to my seat.

“Row G,” said the lady on the door as she checked my ticket. “You’re just there on the left.”

She beamed, her smile as wide as a Pret barista. “Just past that twirly pillar over there.” I looked over and found the pillar. It was twirly. I must not have looked confident about the existence of the twirly pillar, because she carried on. “Do you see that girl with the white shirt? You’ll be near her.”

“Got it,” I said hurriedly, before she started offering to take my hand and personally escort me to my seat.

By the time the interval rolled around, I understood.

It was the show.

Happy shows make for happy audiences. And happy audiences lead to happy ushers.

It’s just maths.

And Pirates of Penzance is a very happy show.

The type of happiness that can only be felt when everyone involved is faking it.

Fake moustaches. Fake eyebrows. Fake ladies…

Ah yes. The fake ladies. 

Is there any greater sight than an entire ensemble of dashing young men swishing onto the stage wearing crinolines? If there is, let me die in ignorance of the existence of such a spectacle, because it would surely kill me anyway.

Still not trusting the wine, I spent the interval roaming around and pointing my Pixel at everything in sight. But what I should have done was switch my microphone on. Everywhere I went, men were humming refrains in their wives’ faces. “Are you converted yet?” asked one with a laugh. It turned out she was, as she hummed the next line right back at him.

The humming continued right into the theatre. As I stood on the edge, trying to capture the sloped floor (if you ever want to know what it’s like to perform on a raked stage, may I suggest getting a seat at the back of the Wilton’s auditorium? You’ll soon learn the footwork required as you shuffle between the rows) different tunes clashed in a battle of hummers as the Gilbert and Sullivan acolytes filed back to their seats.

The emergence of the cast for act two did nothing to detract them, and the quieter moments were often punctuated by the echo of the fading notes as the hummers joined in.

And strangely, I found myself rather enjoying their contributions. With the pros on stage doing their stuff without the aid of mics, and the single pianist providing the accompaniment, it had the casual air of a boozy pub sing along. A very sophisticated sing along, for sure, but it felt... real.

What an alarming thought.

Thankfully it didn't last long. Built to Victorian fire safety standards, it takes a while to get out of Wilton's. And as I waited to exit I had the opportunity to examine the beautifully desicated walls from close range. 

The distressed paintwork was not peeling, but Pollocked.  

It was all a charade. An illusion. A theatrical set.

It was... fake! 

And that’s something really worth praising the theatre gods for.

A catalogue of all my failings

When I was a little girl, my mum used to tell me that I could be whatever I wanted to be. As long as what I wanted to be was a doctor.

Which just goes to show that a mother's love is blinkered if not totally blind.

I would have made a terrible doctor. I panic in a crisis. Freeze in an emergency. And I failed physics A-level.

Yeah, I know. I was pretty shocked by that too. Mostly because I have admitted to an academic failure before even telling you that I have an MSc (have I told you that I have an MSc? Because I totally have an MSc…), but also because, if anything, I thought it would have been my chemistry grade that I ended up rejecting. I managed to turn up to one exam without a calculator, for god's sake. A blunder I topped a few days later when I turned over my second paper while being ever so slightly drunk.

So you see, no amount of positive thinking was going to get me a medical degree. Which is a relief to everyone. By shifting my attention to the arts, I have probably saved countless lives. Including my own. I would have definitely ended up stabbing myself if I ever got my hands on a scalpel.

I’m much better off wielding a red pen. No one ever died from a typo-riddled cast sheet.

Still, while I may have stumbled into a safe career, as my failed A-level would suggest, I am no good at learning lessons.

At 6pm last night, as I switched off my computer and called the lift, I decided I was going to walk to that evening’s theatre.

Fine. No problem with that. I do that pretty much every night after work.

Except the theatre I was going to was the Royal Court. And getting there on foot would involve going through Victoria. And we all know how badly that went last time around.

It started out so well.

I’d been stuck at my desk since 8.30am that morning. So being up and about, striding through the chilly evening air, was blissful.

But at 7pm I was still walking, powering down The Mall, the chilly air now freezing against my flushed cheeks.

At 7.10pm I was fighting with Google Maps.

At 7.11pm I was trying to work out if I was even going the right way

At 7.12pm Google Maps tried to convince me I was walking away from Buckingham Palace.

At 7.14pm I realised Google Maps is a fucking liar and turned around.

At 7.15pm I had barely made it to Eaton Square and I was convinced I was going to be late.

At 7.17pm I started running.

At 7.20pm I was fairly certain I was going to die of heart failure before I even got to the damn theatre.

At 7.24pm I rounded the corner into Sloane Square, fell up the stairs and through the glass doors of the Royal Court. A sweaty mess.

No time for photos. I picked up my ticket and headed straight down to the stalls.

Or at least, I tried to.

The queue was backing up the stairs. There was nowhere to go. A scrum of people poured out of the bar, clogging up the stalls foyer in their efforts to get to their seats.

I was stuck.

I slumped against the handrail, catching my breath while I watched the chaos rage below. After a minute or so, I got out my phone and used the opportunity to take a few photos.

Eventually the way cleared and I was able to get down the stairs, across the foyer, and into the theatre. And then, bliss - sitting down in those squashy leather seats that always manage to make me feel like I am back at my grandparents’ cottage in Devon, curled up in one of their oversized armchairs with a dog and my battered copy of A Little Princess.

There was no canine companion on hand at the Royal Court that evening, but I did have a copy of the playtext to serve as a stand-in for my childhood favourite book.

Pre-bought along with my ticket and picked up at the box office on arrival. All of £4 and you get to take home all of David Ireland’s words with you at the end of the night. Or almost all of them. I had a skim through on the way home and it looks like the whole Tom Cruise speech happened after the playtexts went to print, but… ah. Still a bloody bargain. Even without Tom Cruise.

In fact, it was bargains all round as I was there on a Monday. Ten pound Mondays at the Royal Court are the greatest gift the theatre gods have ever bestowed on us poverty-stricken theatre fans. Even if they’re not ten pounds anymore. Log in to their website on 9am on a Monday morning, and a ticket for the mighty sum of twelve pounds can be yours. If you’re quick, you can even get a prime spot in the stalls.

Sat in the centre of the second row, I was feeling pretty damn smug.

I may have been a runny mess, but I was there, at Cyprus Avenue. I’d made it.

Which is more than I can say for its 2016 run. I hadn’t managed to get myself Monday tickets back then because of… well, laziness. And forgetfulness. Week after week I told myself I was going to go, and then Monday after Monday I utterly failed to do so. Probably didn’t help that it was around the same time the Royal Court declined to hire me for a job and I was still feeling a bit raw and bitter about the whole thing… but you know, I’m totally over than now.

God, I really am telling you every little embarrassing thing about me today, aren’t I?

It’s probably just an attempt to distract myself from the lingering horror of the play.

After it was over, I hung around to get my photos, before heading out to try and get the exterior shots.

Half way through my photoshoot, a bus decided that it would be an excellent time to park outside, forcing me to hang around as he switched his signs over for the return route.

Devoid of distraction, I was suddenly forced to think of events of the past hundred minutes. Of how the jokes kept on going even after we had long since stopped laughing. Of the stains left on the carpet. And the sounds of death still echoing in my ears.

I shuddered, and pulled my coat close around me.

I felt sick.

I wanted to go home, stick on my electric blanket, have a cup of tea, snuggle under my duvet, and have a bit of a cry.

I didn’t hang around for the bus to move.

Miss Smiles in the library with the chaise longue

It isn’t often that you find yourself in a queue of people waiting to be let inside a library. Well, not outside finals week anyway. And that tends to involve a bit more crying and ProPlus jitters than this group displaying.

“This square’s a bit posh, isn’t it?” said Helen, dropping her voice by at least an octave as we entered the library.

That’s quite the statement from someone I literally met at the Royal Opera House.

I knew what she meant though. Walking over from work, and turning from the West End into Piccadilly is quite the shock. Streets widen, ceilings heighten, and walls whiten. It’s like stepping into a period drama. You can practically hear the rattle of carriage wheels making their way around St James’ Square.

“I wish I could have seen in back in Jane Austen’s day,” she continued in a whisper.

It’s amazing how even out-of-hours the papery-silence of a library’s atmosphere gets to you.

As if on cue, the line shifted forward, bringing into view the most extraordinary day-bed. Built on a scale suitable for giants, and upholstered in a whisky coloured leather, this seemed better suited to Byron’s hangover than Mrs Bennett’s vapour attacks, but I’m never one to pass up the opportunity presented by a fainting couch.

“Do you want me to take a photo of you on it?” asked Helen.

I pretended to consider this for a full half-second before dropping my bag and sinking myself into the squashy leather surface.

Oh yeah. That’s the stuff. I need to get me one of these.

I wonder if the library would consider loaning it out to me. I’ll bring it back, I swear!

Photoshoot complete, we headed to the makeshift box office. Now, in theory I had an e-ticket, but if this marathon has taught me anything, it’s that one must always check in at the box office. You never know what you’re going to get. Like a miniature postcard with optical-illusion artwork printed on the front, and your seat numbers scrawled on the back, for instance.

“Oh my god, look at this!” I showed Helen, much to the amusement of the box office lady. “So cute!”

“You and your tickets,” laughed Helen.

Yeah, well, look. Everyone has their vices. Mine just happens to be paper-based-theatre-keepsakes. And I don’t think anyone going to see a play in a library is in any position to pass judgement on that. And the illustrated artwork is really cute. There’s no denying it. What with the little bats fluttering around, and the silhouette of Dracula himself cupping the chins of the two figures behind him.

I shouldn’t complain. Helen has gone with me to some weird spaces for the sake of my marathon: Libraries, barges, the New Wimbledon.

She also bought me a drink.

And a programme.

The woman is such a fucking angel. Seriously.

Drinks, programmes, and pretty tickets acquired, we followed the signs up the stairs to the room that would be serving as our theatre for the evening.

“Is this the main reading room?” she asked as we dumped our coats and bags.  “Look, you’re not allowed to bring laptops in here.”

“It’s very old fashioned,” I explained, staring at my assigned seat and wondering how I was going to clamber up onto it. It was a tall chair. I am not tall. Nor am I adept at climbing. I can’t see one of these things without wholeheartedly believing that I will fall off and die if I attempt to sit on it.

What can I say? I have issues.

It’s okay though. We’re working through this. You and me. Together.

Yeah, sorry to dump that on you. But I’m giving you some quality content over here, the least you can do is provide me with some unpaid therapy. Don’t worry, you don’t have to say anything. You just sit there and look pretty while I prattle on over here.

I flicked open the programme. God-lord, look at that formatting! Two-spaces after the full-stops! I thought that convention went out with the typewriter. This place really is old fashioned.

Which is exactly what I want from a library. And even more what I want for a production of Dracula.

The set, such as it is, was simple. A chaise longue (much more reasonably proportioned than the leather monstrosity lurking downstairs), a ladder, a couple of projection screens and, of course… the library itself. With its staircase and walkway and window.

“That bit in the window!” I gasped when the interval rolled around.

“The window, was amazing,” agreed Helen.

I don’t think I’ll get the image of the screen being rolled up to reveal the shadowy form of Van Helsing standing there, in the dark, peering in at us through the panes of the French window, for a long time.

“And the projections are great,” continued Helen.

“The projections are great.”

“The way they are integrated into the work.”

“Absolutely.” I paused. “Doesn’t he look like Matthew Ball?” I said, referring to The Royal Ballet principal.

“Oh my god, he does look like Matthew Ball.”

“It’s the eyes.”

“And the hair.”

“I like him.”

“Me too.”

“And not just because he looks like Matthew Ball.”

Helen looked at me skeptically.

“I like her too,” I said hurriedly. “She has the most gorgeously vintage face.”

“She does have a very vintage face.”

“They’re both great.”

“They are.”

I reached down for my bag in an attempt to hide my flusters.

“I’m just going to get a photo of that calendar,” I said, slipping off the chair and scuttling over to the wooden pillar which housed a set of date cards.

This place is so, so old-fashioned.

I love it so hard.

Unfortunately, my little crush on both of the cast members only increased during the second act on the reappearance of the window.

The screen was whipped away. The window opened.

They began to climb out onto the roof.

I gasped. They couldn’t do that! It was raining! They weren’t even wearing coats!

When they reappeared I had to sit on my hands in an effort to stop myself from running after the pair of them with a warm scarf.

The sight of her skirt covered in rain droplets made my heart ache.

I wanted to bake biscuits for the pair of them.

You know I’ve got it bad when I want to bake for people. It’s the Jewish grandmother in me.

They were really cute though.

I’m not sure it’s entirely appropriate to get a case of the warm fuzzies from a production of Dracula, but what can I say… it’s the Goth in me.

It was still raining when we left the library.

Somehow it’s less romantic when it’s you being rained on.

And don’t have anyone to bake biscuits for you.

The center of attention back for the winter

Standing outside the now familiar double doors of the Arocola, I took a deep breath and steeled myself. I was back. My first return visit since starting this challenge. Last month I wrote up the theatre's Studio 1. This time I was there to tackle Studio 2.

If they let me in, that is.

Not that I had said anything bad about the place. I had actually really enjoyed the whole experience. 

Still, it managed to feel like I was somehow returning to the scene of a crime.

But it's hard to feel nervous there, standing in the pink haze of the light filtering through the glass panel that was fitted above their door.

Chances are they didn't even remember what I wrote - good or bad.

But I did. It suddenly hit me, right in the belly. Oof.

I had compared them to scrofula. In a tweet. Or rather, I had compared myself to scrofula. Whatever, scrofula had definitely been mentioned. In the same context as the Arcola. I don’t know about you, but if someone mentioned me in the same sentence as a medieval disease, I would remember. It’s not a mental image that’s easy to forget, what with all the neck pustules and all.

It was no good.

I had to go in.

Studio 2 could not be missed. The marathon demanded it.

I figured I might as well just get it over with.

I pushed through the door and headed over to the box office, with its happy yellow Tickets sign, and gave my name.

For the first time in my life, I wished my surname was slightly less memorable.

“Smile?” asked the young woman on box office duty, her voice filled with doubt.

“Smiles. With an s...” I said. “Two Esses,” I corrected myself. (This is when @weez would have inserted the longest-name-in-the-world joke if she’d been around. But as she wasn’t, I’ll allow you to work out the punchline for that one yourself).

She pulled the ticket from the box. Then paused, looking at it.

Oh dear. She recognised the name. She was going to throw me out.

She frowned.

There it was. She was thinking of neck pustules. No one wants to think of neck pustules. Not on a nice, quiet, Monday evening. Not on any kind of evening. But especially not one at the start of the week. You need a good five days to work up to pustules.

“Was that a comp?” she asked, looking up.

“Oh, yes,” I admitted. Thanks to a bit of Twitter magic, I had indeed got my hands on a comp for that evening’s performance of Stop and Search.

She smiled. “Here you go.”

Oh.

That was the smile of someone who was definitely not thinking about neck pustules.

Which meant that she hadn’t read the tweet.

That was good.

I guess.

I felt a little deflated.

Offended almost. 

You know, I may not tweet as much as I used to, but there was a time when I was considered quite funny. A wit, if you will.

I considered telling her this.

It wasn’t all neck pustules, you know. I did puns too.

She was still holding out the ticket.

“Oh,” I said, taking it from her. A little embarrassed.

“There’s no latecomers and no re-admittance,” she pressed on, ignoring the fact that she was talking to someone who wasn’t capable of taking a piece of paper that was being offered to them. Or perhaps not, as she then went on to detail exactly where Studio 2 was, how to get there, and when I should go, in the simplest, neatest, most user-friendly language I’ve ever encountered.

I’ve said it before, but the Arcola really do walk-the-walk (and talk-the-talk) when it comes to making theatre open and accessible to all.

As the main house (Studio 1) show had closed that weekend, the building was lovely and quiet.

I found myself an empty table, settled in and tried very hard not to think about glandular swellings.

I had almost, but not entirely forgotten about the incident (let’s be real here, I’ll be mumbling about the scrofula-tweet to my nurses as I lay on my deathbed) when it was announced that the doors were open. It was time to head downstairs.

With the stone walls and tunnel-like corridors, I could almost think myself back in Unit 9 at The Vaults, but as we turned into the theatre it was not a shed that appeared out of the gloom, but a cosy space with proper seating on three sides and the heating thwacked on high. And seat numbers. No unreserved seating nonsense going on here.

If I have one criticism of the Studio 2 it is this: legroom. Or rather, the lack of it. Or even more rather, trying-to-squeeze-between-the-rows-to-get-to-your-seat room. Three seats in an I ended up with two banged knees and a rather satisfying bruise this morning.

Now, I admit, I’m a klutz. There’s no use being coy about it when I spend my days in the near vicinity of some of the most graceful people on the planet. But still, I’m beginning to think that the Arcola is out to get me.

My neighbour for the evening, having examined the narrowness of the rows, was having none of it.

Setting down bag and coat and umbrella, she proceeded to climb her way in.

We all watched with admiration and a touch of envy as she skipped happily over row A, before retrieving her bag and coat and umbrella, and plonking herself down next to me.

I almost applauded.

“Rather you than me,” came a voice from down the row.

Absolutely. Fairly certain I would have died if I attempted to do the same thing. And you know what, the Arcola really don’t deserve that.

Not after all the quality theatre they’ve been throwing at me this marathon.

That’s a lot of words to be chucking around in such a confined space. A lot of words. Good words, for sure. But so friggin’ many of them.

I came out feeling spent. Every word in the world had been utterly used up.

I had to stand in the pink light of the foyer for a moment, quietly recharging, until the memory of neck pustules chased me home.

Tripping the Ecto Fantastic

“Come close,” said a red jacketed usher, looming above us as she stood in the doorway of the van that will serve as our theatre. “I have a little speech to give.”

After my emotional trip to the Studio at the Vault Festival earlier that afternoon I was back, this time in one of their vehicle venues - parked at the end of Leake Street.

I was a little annoyed when I saw how close it was.

After trying and failing to get an answer out of the Vault Festival twitter feed as to how much time I should allow to get myself from a show in the Studio to a show in a vehicle venue, I could now see that time was zero seconds.

@VAULTFestival hello! If I'm booking a show in the studio, how much time should I allow for getting to the vehicle venue for Seance?

— Max Smiles (@vampire_soup) January 22, 2019

The check in point is literally just outside the main doors.

Thanks @VAULTfestival. You’re doing great work there not allowing yourself to get distracted from all that praise retweeting by indulging in a touch of customer service. Really super. Well done.

We do as the usher says, gathering close together - just as much to protect our shivering figures again the cold as to hear about our fate.

There weren’t many of us. Three sets of couples, and me.

“Once you come in,” red jacket continues now that we were suitably huddled. “You’ll be given a short opportunity to leave. But once the lights are off, that’s it. You’re stuck.”

A woman standing near me giggled nervously and her companion for the evening smirks. I’d already clocked the pair of them as out on a first date. She’s into tarot cards and healing. He’s trying to pretend that he doesn’t find that incredibly off-putting.

“If you really don’t like it,” says red jacket, “take your headphones off, and it will draw to a close naturally.”

Suitabley terrified, we were ushered into the back of the van.

A long table covered in a white tablecloth greeted us. Hanging above were dim lights, and bells, both hanging low. And either side - two rows of comfy chairs. With headphones.

“If you’re sitting on the right, take the headphones from over your right shoulder. If on the left, your left shoulder,” ordered the red jacket from the door.

After a little confusion about getting my left sorted from my right, I managed to pick the right (that is… left) headphones.

Further left and right disentanglement followed, matching up the big painted L and R on the phones themselves to my corresponding L and R ears.

“Can you hear me?” came the faint voice of the usher once we’d all managed this challenging feat.

We nodded.

She clapped. “Can you hear that?”

We nodded again. We could. Just about.

“Alright.”

And with that she left, shut the door, and plunged us into darkness.

From the other side of the van I heard a door open, and someone coming in. Footsteps clomped around behind me. I had the remind myself there was nothing behind me other than the solid wall of the van.

An unseen voice instructed us to place our hands on the table. I did as I was told, setting my palms flat against the rough cloth. We were taking part in a séance, calling on the departed souls of our loved ones. We must not remove our hands from the table. That was very important. Or the spirits might break free.

I wasn’t overly fussed about that.

Or calling about the spirits of my loved ones, to be honest.

Any spirit would do me.

I’ve been hankering after meeting a theatre ghost for years. And if this was my time to finally get my ghoul on, there, inside a dark van parked on the end of Leake Street… well I wasn’t about to complain if the ectoplasm dripping on my shoulder belonged to a stranger.

I blinked in the darkness. It didn’t seem to make any difference.

I experimented. Closing my eyes, and then opening them again.

A few feet away, I spotted the glimmer of a light.

Someone had forgotten to turn their phone off.

A second later it disappeared.

The blackness took over.

The voices in my ear grew more frantic. Something was going wrong.

I clamped my hands down hard on the table. It was a touch too far away. My arms ached from being stretched out so long.

I wriggled forward, until my knees crashed against the solid block that was the table. It was really uncomfortable sitting like that. My muscles ached. I needed to move my arms, shake them out, but I didn’t dare.

My heart was hammering.

It was so cold. I hadn't taken my coat or shall off, but the freezing air had seeped under my skin.

I wanted to take my headphones off. I wanted to wrap my shawl tighter around my shoulders. But I couldn’t lift my fingers from the table.

My hands began to tremble.

Was it the cold, or terror? I knew it was all rubbish. No one was there. It was just a recording.

If only it weren’t so dark…

The trembling became a shudder. It wasn’t my hands. It was the table. It was rising up, taking my hands with it.

I bit the inside of my mouth, telling myself over and over that it was okay. 

Noises clanged around us. It was so loud. My fingers twitched as they begged to cover my ears.  

Louder and louder until I couldn't take a second longer... 

The table shook violently as it sank back down to the floor.

The awful clanging stopped.

Something was moving around the room again.

Something… not human.  

And then… and then the lights flickered back on. A faint glow, inching itself brighter until we were left blinking at each other across the table.

The pair on the first date had their hands stowed in their laps. They grinned at each other sheepishly. Those two will go far.

The couple that disobeys together, stays together after all.

The door crashed open. “Everyone out!” ordered red jacket.

We scuttled out of the van, our heads bowed. No one wanted to meet each other’s eyes, lest we reveal how scared we were.

Safely back in Waterloo and juddering off home on the tube, I checked my phone.

I’d tried to take a photo of the inside of the van, but my photo roll was completely empty. It jumped straight from the graffiti of Leake Street to the shadowy outside of the van. There was nothing to show for my time inside.

Now, either that’s just my crappy phone or...

My big fat brain

It has suddenly occurred to me, sitting here, on my bed, at home, that I have no idea how to write this blog post.

Usually I have something to start off with. A funny thing that happened, an embarrassing moment that I figure I might as well tell you, or an annoyance that can fill a few hundred words. And the fact is, that yes - I have all of those. But it feels inappropriate to go down that route. Because this show is the first one that I actually booked for me, and not for the marathon. I went to see it because I thought it was important for me to do so. Not to fill some self-imposed quota. And not to check off a venue. This was the show that I organised all my Vault Festival bookings around. Because I thought it was the one I had to go to, above all the others.

So, while I could spend a blog post detailing everything that irritates me about the Vaults, I’m not going to do that. Not with this one.

That’s a big statement from something who is just sat here floundering about with words.

So, let’s try and impose some order on this colloquy chaos shall we?

Why did I go? Why this show?

Okay, great start. Good, strong start.

I went to see Fatty Fat Fat because I used to be a Fatty Fat Fat.

And no this isn’t going to be a preachy blog post about how I lost the weight or any such bollocks, because fuck that shit. I lost weight through a combination of anxiety, stress, and insomnia. Which put me in the strange position of gaining thin privilege and yet not having done anything to deserve it. Result: I have a fuck tonne of unresolved issues on the matter.

I was fat. And now I’m not. And it’s weird. And it’s impossible to talk about properly.

I spent so much of my life as a fat person that I can’t ever imagine myself as anything else. No matter what I look like in the mirror, I will forever think fat. I have a fat mentality. A fat brain. Fat emotions. A fat soul, even.

And yes, I say fat because I was fat. Not chubby. Not fluffy. Not over-whatever-weight. I was fat. Properly fat. Very fat.

How fat was I? I believe it's considered harmful, by those people who understand these things, to post actual numbers, but I also know how annoying it is to not know - so let's say: a fashion designer would have called me plus size, to a teenage boy I’d have been an ugly fat cow, and a doctor would have termed me class three morbidly obese.

Whatever, I was fat.

And I never saw myself on stage.

No, wait. That’s not true.

I can remember seeing one significant fat character on stage. A girl. Who flirted with a boy. And he flirted back. And it was adorable. They were adorable. And I was so frickin’ happy.

That was, until the playwright turned her into the joke.

And it killed me.

No prizes for guessing it was a Martin McDonagh.

God, I hate him. And love him. And hate him more.

This blog post is not about Martin McDonagh.

Other than to explain why I wanted to see a play written by a fat woman, and one who claimed that fatness. A play where if there was a joke, that the fat people would be in on it.

That’s a lot of pressure to put on a one-woman show. Sorry Katie Greenall, I was asking a lot of you as I headed into the Studio at the Vaults and took my seat.

But that’s the thing with underrepresented classes. When a show does come around, it has to cater to every single need and taste, because there’s nothing else out there offering it as a choice on the menu.

So, I can forgive Katie for making the audience clap along to the Cha-Cha Slide. You already know that I can’t clap in time with music, so I sat that one out.

I can also kind of forgive her picking someone to come onstage through the medium of hiding a crisp packet under their seat, but only because I’ve told myself that was a set-up, and both the crisp packet and the audience member were planted - because the alternative is too abhorrent to contemplate.  

And I can forgive her making us play Never Have I Ever, a game I hate because I find the grammar confusing, because she gave us all crisps to eat along with her and I ended up eating a lot of crisps.

What I can’t forgive is the raw words that she threw down once all the silly games had ended. With truth flying all over that small space there was nowhere to hide.

Story followed story, dripped out - sometimes as simple throw-away tales, others more poetic in structure - and each one burning out a hole in me as they found a similar tale in my own memories, burrowing in deep to pull them out.

It was brave. It was painful. And I really, really, needed it.

I needed to hear those stories. Perhaps as much as Katie seemed to need to tell them.

And perhaps as much as I need to tell a few of my own.

Like the time that the piano teacher in my childhood ballet lessons pulled me aside to ask if I ate crisps (what is it with crisps?).

Or the time when I was playing Charlie’s mother in my school’s version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory my English teacher stopped the rehearsal to change Charlie’s line from “my mother looks so pale and thin” to “pale and tired” in front of my whole class.

Or the time I was given a digital scale as a birthday present.

Or the time my mother offered to pay for weight loss surgery.

Or the time I had to explain to my landlord exactly how I had managed to break my bed.

Or the time when my nephew asked me why I was so big. Well, not exactly that time. I would have forgotten it entirely if I hadn’t mentioned it to my sister-in-law - laughing as I shared the joke. “He means impressive,” she quickly explained. Too quickly. That was not what he had meant at all, but her desperation to cover his gaff hurt more than his words ever could.

Or the times, so many times, that my old flatmate, Leanne, the prettiest girl I had ever seen in my life, used me as a human shield when we went out dancing together, to protect her from the predatory eyes of boys who could see only her.

Wow. Too many times. Too much hurt.

But here’s the thing they don’t tell you about being fat: it gives you superpowers.

The fat brain is very perceptive. It can see the world differently to those who have never carried the weight.

Because it knows the world’s dark secret.

It knows that every time someone stops their car to let me cross the road, that five minutes later they'll be speeding up to make a fat person run.

It knows that when a waiter gives an admiring smile in response to my request for a massive slice of cake, that they’ll be fighting back a wave of disgust at the next fat person who does the same thing.

And I have to live with that.

And let me tell you, it makes it super hard to trust new people.

Every comment about a fat person, every joke I hear, will be analysed and turned over a thousand times.

Would they have liked me if they knew me when I was fat? Would they have even seen me?

Would you? No seriously. I’m asking. Would you be reading this blog if I was still fat? I know I certainly wouldn’t have written it.

I had the idea for this marathon five years ago. And this is the year I chose the go through with it. The year I wasn’t fat anymore.

It hadn’t occurred to me before this moment, this exact moment, that these two things might be connected.

But of course they are.

I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.

The world has grown the smaller I got.

And just thank god that all of my closest friends now knew me when I was fat. Knew what I looked like and still treated me as a human being, and a friend, and not something other.

Because fat people are other. They are set-apart. Their stories untold and unheard.

And that is why I went to see Fatty Fat Fat, and you should too.

Right, that’s enough of that. I’m going to quickly post this before I wimp out.

Oh My Gardée

"Wanna risk it?"

Not my usual sales-pitch when inviting a friend to come and see a show with me, but I was putting a lot of faith in the theatre gods to deliver on this one. At first glance, it was an enticing prospect: a crowd-pleasing ballet (Fille mal gardée), an easy to get to theatre (New Wimbledon), and the prospect of cake with a local (Ellen), but once the local quickly made it known that she would in no way consider attending, it soon became clear that we were into Tom Cruise levels of risky business here. 

The ballet may have been Fille, but it was the Gorsky not the Ashton version, and it was being performed by one of those Russian-touring companies that have such a grandiose name you figure they must be fairly fancy, until you realise that fancy-companies don't tend to spend quite so much time on the regional-theatre circuit. And then there was the matter of the theatre. Or rather, its seat map. 

Less than a week before the performance and the New Wimbledon's seating plan had more brightly-coloured dots than a Cath Kidson outlet sale. With each dot corresponding to an unsold seat, there was a good chance that this was a house that was going to need some serious box office-manoeuvres to make it look presentable come curtain-up. And I was willing to place a bet on it.

I told Helen my plan. We'd buy the cheapest possible seats, up in the upper circle. With so few seats sold up there, chances are they wouldn't want to have to staff it on the night, the upper circle would be closed, and we'd be upgraded.

"Yeah let's gamble!" came the immediate reply.

Right then.

The game was on.

I scoured the seating plan and picked our seats - right on the end of the row, restricted view. Terrible, awful seats. 

This better not go wrong, was all I could think as I keyed in my card details. Or Helen was going to kill me. 

Over matcha crepes at Cafe Mori, Ellen wished us luck for our "Grim Fille."

"Message me in the interval," she ordered, with an evil glint in her eye, a little too pleased to not be going with us.

She must have already seen the posters.

"What even is that?" I asked Helen as we neared the theatre.

It was a ballerina. En pointe. Wearing a familiar looking white tutu.

"Swan Lake," we both said at the same time.

"Are they even performing Swan Lake?"

I scanned the poster. No. They weren't.

What they were doing apparently, was sticking a pink background on a random ballet image and hoping that no one would notice. 

This was not a good sign. It wasn't even a good poster.

Oh well, there was no backing out now.

We forged on to the box office.

"The upper circle is closed," said the woman behind the counter as she inspected them. "Let me get your new seat numbers."

I gave Helen my best smug face.

"Right," said the box office lady as she scrawled our new seats on the tickets. "You're in the dress circle."

We were in the fucking dress circle!

Pink Swan Lake posters or no, things were looking up.

Now, let's just freeze-frame for a moment on that smug face of mine. There's something I need to explain so that you'll understand the significance of everything that follows, something very important. And that is: I love Fille. 

I really love Fille.

I cannot emphasis that enough.

If you take anything away from this post it should be this: I love Fille.

I love the music. The costumes. The dancing. The characters. The pony.

And I love the love.

Not just the young love of Colas and Lise, but the love between Lise and her mum, the Widow Simone. And the love between Farmer Thomas and his son Alain (oh, when Thomas strokes Alain's hair, soothing the poor lad after he fails to get the girl... my heart), the burgeoning, and slightly knowing relationship between Simone and Thomas. And of course, the love of Alain for his umbrella.

No one leaves the stage without a happy ending. That is Ashton's gift to the audience. He ties a shiny pink bow on everyone's story and sends them out holding hands and singing into the night.

When the opening notes of Gorsky's Fille sounded up from the pit, both Helen and I jolted in our seats. We turned to each other with panicked looks. These were not the gentle tones of the Ashton, conjuring up a slow sunrise over rolling hills, yawning milkmaids picking hay out of their hair while the stableboy tries to find his britches. 

"That sounds sinister," I hissed at Helen under my breath.

She nodded back.

The world this music was conjuring was one where the forces of Big Dairy meant that the milkmaids were all out of a job, while the stableboys had been requisitioned to help the army tend the fires after the latest Foot and Mouth outbreak.

If the music of the overture was wrong, the oeufs were even wronger. Lise fetching eggs from the hen house? No! She should be working the butterchurn. How else was the choreographer going to fit in a knob joke into the first act?

It was then that I finally began to understand why Ashton's Fille is considered so quintessentially English. The Russians weren't going to have any knob jokes in their version. Not a single one.

Worse still, the role of Widow Simone is danced by an actual woman and not a man in a padded dress.

I spent the entire ballet giggling and gasping in fascinated horror. Like an incomplete jigsaw puzzle of a famous painting, I could spot the recognisable bits, but it was jumbled up - all in the wrong order, to the wrong music, and being done by the wrong characters.

"Alain catching the butterfly," we gasped as we jogged through the snow on our way to the station. "That was Lise pretending to catch the fly!"

"And Lise stubbing her toe when she kicks the door-"

"That's her mum hurting her foot on the butter churn!"

"And the hobby horse being thrown around was the flute!"

"Which makes so much more sense!"

"Yeah, where did the hobby horse even come from?"

"At least a flute at a harvest festival has a reason to be there."

"Yes!"

"And the circles in the rain, became the maypole!"

"Oh my god, yes!"

"Ashton was like - if they want circles, I'll show them circles!"

"And he gave us a real pony!"

"For which we are eternally grateful."

"Ashton was a genius.

"Ashton was a genius."

"What vision - to turn that mess into..."

"Our Fille."

"Exactly."

"He was a genius."

"He was a genius."

"He was a dramaturge."

"Yes!"

"He made an actual story. With characters. I've never realised how deep they all were until..."

"That."

"Yes."

"That whole thing with Colas getting the Village Notary drunk and stealing his clothes..."

"So wrong."

"Because it means that we know he's seeing Lise's fantasy about having kids with him."

"Yes! Ashton hides him from her and from us."

"So when he reveals himself-"

"-we feel her embarrassment too!"

"It's a double-hitter - the joke, then the blushes. Here it's all joke."

"And oh my god, the When We Are Married mime!"

"The mime!"

"It was all there-"

"-but all wrong!"

"The timing..."

"The storytelling..."

"All wrong."

"All wrong."

"Ashton was such a genius."

"Such a fucking genius."

At some point during all this we had managed to board a train.

"I wish I could have met him," I said, as I plonked myself down in a seat. 

Helen looked shocked. I never want to meet anyone.

"I just want to hear him talk about... his process. How he took that and turned it into..." I touched my lashes. "I feel a bit emotional about him."

"Oh my god, you really do," said Helen, laughing at my tearing eyes.

I really was. I sniffed and tried to hold it together.

"This changes everything. I will never be able to watch Ashton in the same way again."

"People bang on about MacMillan being the great storyteller, but Ashton..."

"Fuck. Yes. Fucking. Ashton!"

"When MacMillan did Romeo and Juliet... the story was there!"

"Yeah, Ashton had to strip it all back and start again!"

"He took tiny moments and created a complete world!"

"He totally changed the relationship between Lise and her mother. Like... making them spin wool together, it's funny, but also, that's how you know they love each other. Her mum tapping the beat on the tambourine-"

"-the one from the first act."

"Yes, exactly. Thank you. He took the pointless act one tambourine-"

"-that added nothing to the storyline."

"Less than nothing. He took it, and transformed it, and built it up. This is something they've done a thousand times before. Mum making music for her daughter to dance around to."

"So she's not just marrying off her daughter for money. She wants her to be happy. She wants a secure marriage. Not to the lad who has probably been chasing her chickens round the yard since he was a toddler."

"Exactly. So when she finally comes round and approves the match-"

"It actually means something."

"Ashton was such a fucking genius."

"He was fucking ballsy. He was like - those Italian fouettes? My Lise doesn't need them."

"Their dancing is all about the characters."

"It's not about the virtuosity."

"It's about the story."

"Yes."

"Wait, is this you?" I said, looking up to see what station we were in.

"Shit yes."

Helen jumped off the train. A second later, she stuck her head back through the door. "Aren't you supposed to be changing here too?"

The doors closed. The train moved on.

I was supposed to have been changing there.

Shit.

Still... fucking Ashton. 

I can't get over it.

The incorporeal manner of cats

The Omnibus Theatre must have the most middle-class "how to get here" instructions in London. 

"You should see a Little Waitrose the opposite side of the road," it lightly trilled - or at least, that’s how it sounded in my head, in the tones of a boarding school housemistress whose fiancee had left her for a nightclub dancer.

I did see a Little Waitrose on the opposite side of the road.

We were off to a good start.

“Follow The Pavement,” it continued. I followed The Pavement. And all the rest of the instructions, until I found the theatre, on the corner of Clapham Common Northside and the very literary sounding Orlando Road, “opposite the Starbucks,” exactly as advised.

This air of quiet gentility continued through the door, as I saw signs for the Common Room which gave off less of an air of Man on the Clapham Omnibus, and more the Girls of Malory Towers. I half expected to see Darrell and Felicity toasting crumpets over the fire.

Oh, god. I could do with a crumpet right about now… Nope. I don’t. What I could do with is stopping thinking about food all the time.

Words. Writing. Theatre. That’s what I should be concentrating on.

Anyway, where was I? Yes. Clapham. The Omnibus. Fine.

I gave my name at the box office, and was handed a laminated token in exchange.

“Seating is unreserved. The house is open now. But there's still time to get a drink.”

A very relaxed statement given the usual rush to get seats when doors open.

This atmosphere extended into the Common Room, where people lazed about on squashy sofas and chatted quietly. No one looked like they were in any particular rush to head into the theatre.

“I do like an arched door,” commented one woman, taking a photo of said arched door. She turned to her companion. “Shall we get a drink?”

Flummoxed by all this tranquility, I too hung back, taking my own pictures of the space. There’s plenty there to photograph. Bookcases, artworks on the wall, big sprawling wooden tables, a bar heavily laden with knick-knacks.

But you and I both know that such serenity couldn’t last. Not in my little anxious soul.

As the clock above the bar sloughed away the seconds, I began to grow restless and I found myself heading over to those arched doors. There was no holding back. I was going in.

After all the arched doors and squashy sofas and bookcases, I’d expected something a little bit different than the regimented rows of neat blue seats that I found inside the theatre.

With the light pouring in from the rear, highlighting the backs of everyone’s heads, it was almost like being inside a cinema. A feeling not helped by the actors already in situ on stage, sat in formation, staring out at us. Watching. Dressed in vintage blacks, they looked a still from a silent movie come to life.

I may have been in all-black too, but mine wasn’t vintage. My own efforts had a distinct lack of black satin flowers. There was no black lace capes draped over a matching black lace gown. No black beaded trim, black ribboned shoes or… Ooo… what was that? Shiny black jacquard? Yes, please! The costume-envy was going to be strong on this one. I could already tell.

Hoping the cast didn’t misconstrue the lust in my eyes, I quickly shuffled into an aisle seat about half-way back for some quality outfit-perving.

But someone was coming down the aisle, blocking my view. Someone familiar looking.

Michael Billington, theatre reviewing royalty. Nay, the king himself. Whatever grain of salt you use on his reviews, he deserves respect. The man’s been a drama critic for The Guardian since before I was born.

Golly.

It wasn’t press night was it?

I checked.

No. It was the last preview.

Cheeky.

Still, I was intrigued to see where the great master would sit. I creeped on him under the guise of reading the freesheet. 

The row behind me. On the aisle.

I congratulated myself on my seat choice. Mid-way back and on the aisle - the critics' choice.

But in all my pretend reading of the freesheet I had managed to not read something.

I went back to it, unsure if I had not read it because I was not actually reading, or not read it because it was not there.

I scanned the narrow pages.

Nope. It wasn’t there. No running time.

Had the woman on box office mentioned a running time? I couldn’t remember. I had been thinking about crumpets.

Was there even an interval?

Considering the play I was watching was primarily set in intervals, this could all become quite meta very fast.

I was there for The Orchestra, where the frenzied back-biting between the musicians takes place in the interludes in their playing.

Or rather, not playing. The music was piped in as the actors bowed, plucked, and pounded at their instruments - not making a sound for themselves.

When a cello was replaced by knitting needles, I craned forward, trying to see if that was being faked too.

“Japan stitch is vulgar,” sneered one of the characters, also leaning in to have a look.

Japan stitch?

I’d never heard of it, but then, I haven’t knitted much since I was a teenager.

I turned to the expert, my fiend Ellen. She knits for the stars of The Royal Ballet. She’d know.

“Ellen - is the Japan stitch vulgar?” I messaged her as the lights rose.

“I’ve never heard of it! It’s a knitting term?” she messaged back a minute later.

Hmm.

Helen was equally dubious. “I reckon Japan stitch is completely made up,” she interjected. “1. Japan doesn’t knit traditionally. 2. If it was a stitch it would be all metaphysical and ineffable and inscrutable and zen and that.”

Well, quite.

But all this lead to another question. Had the play finished? I mean, I knew it had, because we’d clapped and shit. But the other things that happen when plays come to a close had, well, not.

For example, leaving. People weren’t doing that.

The laid back atmosphere of the Common Room had invaded the theatre. No one wanted to budge.

Taking some initiative, I put on my coat and scarf, and as no one made an attempt to stop me, I left.

“Excuse me,” came a voice from behind me as I paused to look at one of the pieces of art on the wall.

Oh, shit. Maybe there really was more.

I turned round.

“Would you like me to explain the artwork?” said the small woman standing behind me.

I did. It looked strange and wonderful. A series of white cloth dolls, perfectly poised on rows of string - like a display of voodoo dolls, available to purchase for the curse-rich but time-poor witch.

“They belong to an art project called Dreams and a Heart. I ask members of the community to fill the doll with dreams,” she said, touching a cloud of cotton wool on the table. “Then we insert a heart and meditate over it before adding it to the display.

“Would you like to make one?” she asked gently.

I did rather fancy sewing a doll, but I fancied going home even more. So I passed.

I'd hate the give the poor things my dreams anyway. It must be hard enough being strung up there without my unconscious thoughts fucking it up.

I made to hurry out, but as I was leaving I spotted something.

What the…

There are cats? Two of them? At the Omnibus? And I missed them?

I am outraged, appalled, and frankly hurt that the cats hadn’t made themselves known to me.

This is worse than the ghost hunt of theatre 3/251. Ghosts at least have the decency to exist in an incorporeal manner that might easily escape detection. Cats, on the other hand, have too much fluff to occupy liminal spaces.

I dithered in the doorway. I could go back, I told myself. I might see a cat. I might even see two cats. I might… here my brain took on a zealous tone: I might partake in the making of art!

I cringed.

Ergh. Too much, brain. Way too much.

Stick to thinking up blog post titles from now on, will you?

Messing around on boats

Brr, it’s cold.

No like, properly freezing.

And entirely the wrong day to be heading down to the canal and hang out on a barge.

“It’s been snowing,” said Helen, bundled up in padded coat as we met by the waterside. Her huge fur-trimmed hood nodded in the direction of the ice that clung to the base of the wall next to us.

So, yes, it was really effin’ cold.

We looked from the ice, to the brightly-coloured barge, and back again.

“Do they have heating?” asked Helen.

“I think so,” I said doubtfully. “But the website said to wear layers.”

I wasn’t wearing layers.

After my attack of the vapours on Friday’s trip to the Wanamaker, I was a little nervous about putting my heattech back on. It was just me, my dress, and my coat, against the elements.

And we were shivering.

“Let’s go inside.”

We made out way up the short gangway and onto the deck.

It was beautiful there. Moored right in the middle of Little Venice, the water was surrounded by massive stucco-fronted buildings on all sides.

The water churned as boats thrummed their way past.

The air had that sharp whiteness that comes when you’re near a really cold expanse of water.

Gorgeous.

But my knees were starting to freeze solid.

As I opened the door, a waft of warm air spilled out. Good. They had heating.

And tea.

I could see people swarming around with cups at the bottom of the steep staircase that led down into the body of the Puppet Theatre Barge.

Tea has always struck me as a strange substance to consume at the theatre. I was really weirded out by the ubiquitous presence of it at the Orange Tree, but here, on this boat, surrounded by so much frigid water, it seemed right. Proper even. Necessary.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” offered Helen as we queued for tickets at the counter that also served as the bar. I wasn't the only one feeling the need for hot drinks.

I thought about it. I did want tea. But there was something else on the menu that sounded even more appealing. “You know what, I’d really like a hot chocolate.”

“Can we take our drinks in?” Helen asked one of the black-clad ushers.

We could.

Hot chocolates, ticket (just the one needed), and programme (£1) acquired, we were led by another black-clad usher into the theatre itself.

Rows and rows of steeply raked benches, facing the tiniest stage I had ever seen.

While seats aren’t assigned, rows are, and we were directed to the correct one and instructed to shift ourselves to the end, where we wriggled ourselves out of our coats and then set ourselves upon our hot chocolates, letting the warmth seep into our bones and drive it the brittle cold.

What remained, was soon melted by the play.

A collective sigh of appreciation rose up from the barged audience as the first puppet appeared, and never really went away. It hovered amongst us, reveling in the charm that poured out from that tiny stage, inhabited by the clinking wooden puppets.

The Butterfly’s Spell, by Federico Garcia Lorca. Yes, the guy who wrote Yerma also wrote a play about a beetle falling in love with an injured butterfly.

“He sure had range,” I observed during the interval.

But perhaps it isn’t so surprising. Who else could have prevented such a sweet tale from devolving into schmaltz?

The woman working the box office came over. “Can I take your cups from you?” she asked. “We’ve run out at the front.”

The rush for more tea and biscuits must have been considerable.

No wonder. By that point the effects of my hot chocolate were wearing off and I dug out my scarf to put around my shoulders.

As the audience filled back in for the second act, I noticed something.

I looked around just to check.

Yup.

We were all grown-ups.

Not a single child to be seen.

I would have thought a 3pm performance on a Sunday would have been the ideal time to take a child to see a puppet-show on a barge. But perhaps only the childless can be convinced to throw off their duvet on such a wintery day in order to spend their afternoon on a boat.

Their loss.

At the end, the puppeteers came out for their bows.

I recognised them.

They were the same black-clad figures who had led us all to our seats.

“I fucking loved that,” I said, as our applause died down. “So fucking charming.”

Helen agreed.

We started plotting the casting for a ballet version. 

The entire experience was magical. I’m definitely going back. I need more magic in my life.

I just need to remember my heattech.

But there was no time to dwell on the experience. I had somewhere else to be. It was a two-show day, and I was heading off to Waterloo for my first trip to the Vault Festival… and the dreaded Unit 9.

Very non-'U'

You’d think after my near-fainting incident at the Wanamaker on Friday I’d be taking it easy this weekend. A couple of days off to laze around in bed and eat toast.

Unfortunately, the theatre gods had other ideas. A marathon won’t wait for no woman. So, I was off again, to Ealing this time, for theatre number 28 on the list - a spot of Polly Stenham at The Questors Theatre.

Don’t worry, I still got my toast.

I was actually really looking forward to this one.

I do like Polly Stenham’s work. Even if her plays are all about posh dysfunctional people. Perhaps that's the appeal. As a (somewhat) posh and (somewhat) dysfunctional person myself, I mean.

I’d never been to Ealing before. Stepping out of the South Ealing tube station was a bit of a shock to the system.

It was completely deserted.

Empty pavements. Closed shops. Every house a collage of darkened windows.

Spooky.

Where had everyone gone?

It was as if the entire neighbourhood had been abandoned.

Do the people of Ealing go to bed really early on Saturday nights? Or were they already out partying?

It was hard to tell.

If it weren’t for the constant flow of cars coursing down the road, I might have thought I was in some 28 Days Later kind of situation.

Feeling a little creeped out, I headed straight for the theatre.

This road looked very residential. Don’t get me wrong, it was nice residential, with fuck off massive houses. The type you can imagine being the home to a sweet family of children who rule over a magical kingdom at the back of a wardrobe during the school holidays. But it was residential none-the-less.

Was there really a theatre down there? And if so, what did the neighbours think?

I had to ask myself: would I want to live next door to a theatre? Perhaps, I decided. It would depend on the theatre.

As I was making a mental list of the theatres that I wouldn't mind living next to (yes to the Almeida and the Bush, no to the Young Vic and the Polka) I passed a primary school.

Ah. Okay. 

If living next to a theatre means also living next to a school… even a fancy preparatory school, I’d rather nope out of the whole thing. Sorry Ealing. I won’t be moving quite yet.

Amongst all these gargantuan houses, Questors itself was a surprise. It was not the converted mansion that my brain had been expecting, but a modern, glass-fronted building, set back from the road behind a packed car park.

As I picked my way between the vehicles and made my way to the front door, I realised why the pavement here are so devoid of life: everyone drives.

As to prove my point, two cars pulled in and manoeuvred themselves into the last free spaces.

I definitely wouldn’t fit in around here.

Still, you have to admire the people of Ealing for their dedication to amateur theatre. This is quite the building.

There’s a huge blazing sign over the doorways (there are two - with separate entrances for the studio and the main house). I mean, yes - the ‘u’ has burnt out. But I’m sure that will be fixed after the next fundraising drive. It’s still bloody impressive.

As are the staff... or should I say volunteers?

"Is this for the studio?" asked the lady on box office, already reaching for the box of studio tickets. "Or the playhouse?"

"The studio. Good guess," I said, wondering what gave me away. Do I look like a Polly Stenham fan? And if so, what does a Polly Stenham fan look like? It’s my nose, isn’t it? Always gives me away.

Ticket collected (oh, yes - they have real tickets here), I headed back outside and across the way to the Studio door.

Within minutes a queue had formed.

“A queue for the studio? Bloody hell,” laughed a bloke as he came in.

Looks like there are a lot of Polly Stenham acolytes in Ealing. I suspiciously looked up and down the queue, checking to see if we shared any characteristics.

There was one thing I couldn’t help noticing.

We were all very white.

And very theatre.

"I can't believe this is our last proper rehearsal.”

“I’ve just come off 11 weeks of panto.”

“I’m on lighting and sound tonight.”

“What did you think of the script?”

I debated whether I should announce my own theatre creds ("who are we going to commission to write the programme notes?") to indicate that I too was just like them, but somehow I didn't feel necessary. I was there. I was already one of them.

"The play as one hour, forty minutes. No interval," came a booming voice from the front of the queue. "Please use the facilities now, as there's no readmittance." And then, just in case we didn't understand the full implications of this: "It's in the round so you'll be walking across the stage."

The theatrical equivalent of the walk of shame, that is.

"And please read the sign here." He paused. "It says there's smoking and a lot of bad language."

This declaration didn't get the reaction it deserves. 

He tried a different tact.

"There's smoking and a lot of swearing," he said, moving down the line and tearing tickets.

"A lot of fucking swearing," piped up the man behind me.

Too much. The ticket tearer attempted to reign in this unruly crowd.

"A lot of interesting language," he amended as he tore the final tickets.

Finally, we were let in. 

Even after seeing the fancy frontage, I was taken aback by the scale of the studio. 

A good size square floor was surrounded on four sizes by neat rows of seats. 

Where did I want to sit? 

At the back. Obvs. 

But somehow I found myself heading to a front row seat. 

After my incident at the Wanamaker, I was feeling invulnerable. 

Actors don't scare me no more. So, they want to catch my eye... well, let them. They can even talk to me if they want. To hell with it all. 

Though, I still put myself in the corner. Just in case. I was feeling brave. Not stupid.

Plus, there was a nice little gap between the chairs for me to dump my coat and whatnot. 

Congratulating myself on my seating choice, I settled in for a good read of my programme. 

Oh, yes. They have them too. 

I suspect not professionally printed. No bleed on the images. But hey, they were only a pound ("although a donation is always welcome" - they've got a 'u' to repair after all).

The power of the Questors soon became evident as the play started. Piles of black-clad stage hands flooded in, furnishing the space under cover of darkness. 

100 minutes later we were done.

As I stepped back out, buttoning my coat in preparation for the fifteen minute walk to the station, clunks sounded all around me. Car doors opened and slammed shuts. Engines started. 

And very soon I had Ealing all to myself once more.

Swoon-worthy theatre

This is not the blog post that I had intended to write.

I had other ideas entirely.

I was going to the next stop on my marathon with a friend. One who is a regular theatre-goer. We had dinner, over at Porky’s, quite possibly the least vegetarian place in existence, and even better, within full-bellied staggering distance of the Globe complex where we would be spending the remainder of the evening.

And while I was busy dribbling mayo and crumbs down the front of my favourite dress, Helen was busy dropping interesting thoughts about the art-form we both love so much. She's very clever, you see.

As an example, when mentioning the gender-swapped Dr Faustus currently playing at the Globe’s Sam Wanamaker Playhouse, my reaction on hearing about the girl-kissing was to share how much hotter I found that than hetero-normative theatrical love scenes. Her's was to muse on how they made one look again at a well-trodden tale.

"Ah, yes. That too," I said, nodding along.

See? She’s very clever. An intellectual even.

So, I was sure that she would have lots of interesting things to say that I could... borrow... for my blog post.

That was the plan at least. 

Events, however, rather got in the way.

After finishing up our meal (and me having a quick brush down of my dress - everything sticks to velvet), we headed across the road to the theatre. We were watching the Dark Night of the Soul, a collection of new plays written in response to the same Dr Faustus that had provoked my previous, embarrassing, admission.

"Free programme," offered an usher, holding up a couple of said free programmes to show us.

Absolutely, yes please.

I can never resist a free programme. I might have even said that: “I can never resist a free programme.”

Especially not one as nice as this. No A4 freesheets run off on the photocopier here. There are pages and pages, with proper artwork and beautiful typesetting and… oh, I’m quite overcome just flicking through it again as I write this.

Such rapture extended all the way up the stairs and into the theatre itself.

I’ve written before about the cognitive dissonance of stepping out of 2019 and into a space transported over from a previous age. And the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse is no less startling even if you expect it.

The white hallway and the bright electric lights are left behind you as you are enveloped by shadows and candlelight.

We took our spaces. Right at the top, balancing on the narrowest of platforms, high above the pit. Spots chosen in a concession to my floundering bank balance. Once bags and coats had been dealt with, there wasn’t much room for feet to be placed.

“It’s a beautiful space, but the sightlines are terrible,” Helen had commented before we went in.

She wasn’t wrong.

It is a beautiful space.

And the sightlines are terrible.

Tucked up against the wall you don’t get much of a view of the stage. But there are compensations.

The ceiling, painted with the images of the skies that they hid, were mere inches above our heads, allowing close inspection of the golden constellations scattered across the angel-strewn heavens.

The curtains leading out into the modern world were drawn shut, and we were left alone in the candlelight, cut off from the outside world.

As the first play started, our row settled into a common stance - arms resting on the bar before us, bums braced against the wall behind, feet positioned wherever our belongings allowed.

The warmth of the candles wafted up, brushing our cheeks.

I leant back, enjoying the feel of the cool walls through the back of my dress.

But the lure of the play was too much and I was soon back on the bar, leaning forward to catch what glimpses of the actors were available.

The air grew hotter.

I ran my finger inside the neck of my high neck of my dress. The satin-frilled collar didn’t allow much in the way of air to get through.

I settled on unbuttoning the cuffs of my sleeves and rolling them as far back as they would go.

That helped.

For a minute or so.

Could I unzip my dress? No one was behind me. I contemplated the acrobatics needed to reach my zip in such a confined space. Impossible... And let's be real here... super weird.

If I could just make it to the end of the play, I could try and grab one of the empty seats, I told myself. It wouldn’t be nearly so bad if I was able to sit down.

I was sweating. Heat rushed up and down my body. My head swam.

I was going to faint. Or throw up.

I didn’t know which was worse.

It couldn’t be long now. These plays were short, weren’t they?

The air grew thick, condensing over the flames below until it was impossible to breath.

I had to get out of there.

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman next to me.

With a whispered warning about the positioning of her bag, she slipped out of the row and let me past.

“I’m going to faint,” I announced to the usher. I really was.

She swept back the curtain and escorted me outside.

The cool air of the corridor flooded into my lungs.

I breathed it in greedily.

“This way,” she said, leading me back into the modern world. “This lady was feeling faint,” she explained to the ushers waiting out in the upper gallery foyer.

They lept up, sitting me down in a chair and fetching me a glass of water as I fanned myself with my hand.

“Sip that slowly,” said one, wearing a top that indicated she was a first aider.

I did my best, but the urge to tip it all back in one was almost overwhelming.

As the internal combustion engine in my chest gradually lost steam, I began to gather my thoughts.

The first of which, I am ashamed to admit, was: wow, this is quality blog content going on right now. My second, no less cerebral, was: I wonder if I'll make it into the show reports. I've always wanted to be in a show report.

They are such good fun to read.

It would be the audience member equivalent of having a character in a play based on you (quality call back to one of the night’s plays - Katie Hims’ Three Minutes After Midnight, right there).

Do we all know what show reports are? I feel if you are reading this blog you probably do. But just in case, they are basically a debrief on everything that happened that evening. Props that failed. Lines fluffed. Entrances missed. Jokes that didn’t land. Audience members who fainted. You get the idea.

“Here,” said the first aider, grabbing one of the free programmes and fanning me with it until I was back in the real world and not thinking about show reports. We laughed. “How are you feeling now?”

“Warm,” I said. But not likely to faint. Or throw up. Which was a relief. “I think I chose the wrong outfit for this theatre,” I said, smoothing down my velvet dress.

“Yes, I always stick to t-shirts when I’m working in there.”

“Yeah, this was a mistake… I’ve even got heattech under here.”

“Oh dear!” she exclaimed, clearly horrified. “You can take it off. There are loos just through there, if you like.”

That sounded like a good idea.

I headed where she pointed, got lost, but then managed to find the loos anyway.

They were gloriously cool. And empty.

I managed to wrestle my zip down, remove the blasted heattech, and then put myself back together again.

I left my cuffs unbuttoned though, and repaired to the sink where I ran cold water over my wrists.

I felt so much better.

That was, until I spotted my reflection. 

Good lord, I was a sweaty mess.  

I'd left my bag in the theatre. I had no way if repairing it. 

Oh well. 

As I was leaving, I saw my first aider chatting to the duty manager, asking about getting the heat down in the theatre.

I slinked away, ashamed at the chaos I was causing. 

“You can sit down over here and watch,” said the usher who was still posted upstairs. She waved me into a seat and indicated the screen showing the live feed of what was going on inside the theatre. “I’m afraid the volume can’t go any higher,” she added as an apology for the poor sound quality.

“Do you have a programme?” she asked.

“I do.”

“You can have another if you like. Follow what’s going on.”

For the first time in my life, I turned down the offer of a programme. Just like when you’re car-sick, I believe it’s better not to read when you’re feeling queasy. All that looking down and focusing. Not good.

We sat together and watched.

A few minutes later the first aider returned, and they switched places.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, full of concern.

“Much better.”

“Fancy heading back in?”

I absolutely did. Mama didn’t raise no quitters.

“The play's almost over. When the angel comes out, I’ll take you back in.”

We waited, watching the screens. Eventually a winged figure emerged from the doors behind the stage. An angel.

She led me back in, handing me over to the usher on the door.

“You can sit over there,” she said, pointing to a vacant spot on the end of a bench.

The view from there was marvellous. The mirror-like stage glowed under the light of the candles.

I looked back at Helen, who was still stoically standing in her five-pound spot. 

I probably should have sprung for a better ticket. 

Almost fainting is certainly one way to get a free upgrade, but perhaps not a route I would recommend following.

Yup, that's me

I've said this before, but good lord, for a theatre marathon, I'm doing one hell of a lot of running.

I know, you don't have to say it. Less than a month in and I'm already having to repeat myself, but if you will forgive me for just a moment - I need to apologise to everyone who was in Waterloo last night. I was sprinting to catch the train to Richmond, and I may not have been entirely considerate of my fellow travellers. 

Thing is, I really couldn't afford to miss that train.

Do you know how far away Richmond is? So bloody far!

There I was, running through the station, my legs getting tangled up in my long dress, and I'm clinging tight onto my shawl, my bag, and my sanity, half-expecting to hear a record scratch to be played through the tannoy and to hear my own voice saying all sardonically: “Yup, that's me. You're probably wondering how I ended up in this situation…” in true Ferris Bueller mode, when I stopped.

Freeze frame.

Yup, that is me.

I’ve just remembered that I forgot to buy cough sweets.

Again!

I dithered, getting in even more people’s way by my lack of ability to decide.

Did I need them? Really?

My cough wasn’t that bad. I’d managed to go a whole two-and-a-half-hours without spluttering over everyone the previous night.

Except… except… the Orange Tree Theatre is small. And not only is it small, it’s in the round. Seating is on all sides. A little thought-of side-effect of having the stage plonked in the middle of the audience is the lighting - you’re never truly in the dark. You can see everyone else sitting in there. If I coughed, everyone would know exactly who to blame. I wasn’t sure I could deal with that level of shame.

I turned around, rushed over to Boots and bought the damn cough sweets.

(Jakemans’ Honey & Lemon Menthol, by the way. The ones in the big yellow bags. Much recommended).

Then I really did have to sprint.

I don't think I could possibly be doing more running if I was training for an actual marathon. A real one. One with timed running and not running times... sorry.

My brain has dissolved into a Pepto Bismol pink liquid after all that aerobic exercise. I was not built to run. I'm one of life's saunterers.

Still, it was worth it. I made my train.

Got a seat and everything.

And my cough sweets.

I was ready to do this thing.

The Orange Tree is just down the road from Richmond station. I've only been there the once before. To see An Octoroon. Because my friend Helen made me.

I don't usually travel for theatre. Even to Richmond.

Or, rather, I didn't used to travel for theatre. Now I practically live in south London, what with the amount of theatres down there. 

The fact that me and Helen are still friends indicates what a good play it was.

Anyway, what I'm saying is, is that I knew what to expect.

The theatre is housed in an old gothic schoolhouse, which made me extra glad that I had dressed as Jane Eyre that morning, in a long, vintage, black velvet dress, with covered buttons and a white lace collar. Think: Ruth Bader Ginsburg at her sassiest.

If you’re thinking that was intentional… it wasn’t actually. I was wearing this massive velvet dress that I can’t run in because I was off to see the Restoration comedy The Double Dealer, and after barely surviving the costume-envy of Gentleman Jack, I wasn’t about to make that mistake again. I was going in with all lace blazing.

"What's the surname?" asked the guy at box office as soon as I was within three feet of the hatch. 

"Err," I said, caught off guard. "It's Smiles. S-M-"

I'd only got half way through spelling it before he was already asking for the first line of my address.

I don't think I've ever been processed so fast at box office. 

I came away, clutching my ticket, feeling a little dazed by the exchange. 

But while the box office may be on some sort of efficiency drive, the programme seller wasn't having with that nonsense. 

"Ah!" he said, sounding delighted that someone actually wanted to buy a programme. "That's 3.50." Adding an "excellent," as I handed over a crisp fiver (can fivers said to be crisp now, in their new plasticky format? Slippery perhaps...).

Ticket in one hand and programme in the other, I headed to the bar. Close to the bar. In the general vicinity of the bar, anyway.

The queue was at least ten deep and everything approaching a horizontal surface had been requisitioned, coating the room in a carpet of grey hair and walking aides.

Everyone there was at least a hundred years older than me. 

I felt positively youthful standing in the midst of it all. 

I slipped into the least densely populated area and tried to stand as still as possible to avoid getting knocked over.

Sales of tea looked strong. There were even tea urns ready to go on the bar. Along with milk and sugar and all the other accoutrements of a good cuppa. With the constant clink of teaspoon against saucer, you might think yourself in a tea room on the Devon coast. 

Now, don't get me wrong. I love me a cup of tea. There's nothing better in the world when you're tired, or cold, or sad, or angry, or... well, literally any emotion you care to name. But at the theatre? In proper cups? Where do you even put them? Do you balance the saucer on your knee every time you want to clap? That sounds like a recipe for scalded knees.

I needn't have worried. 

The cups were left safely behind at the bar. 

The Orange Tree audience knows how to drink a cup down fast. Years of practice, no doubt.

"B10," said the girl on the door as she checked my ticket. "You're just on this middle row here."

"Great." 

"But there may be someone sitting next to you."

"Oh, err...?" 

Now, I may not have looked as... well-rehearsed as the other audience members heading in, but I am old enough to know that going to the theatre usually involves sitting next to at least one person. 

"B11 isn't marked, but there is a space. You may need to squeeze in," she explained. 

"Oh, I see," I said, not seeing at all. 

B10 turned out to be on the end of a row. A row right next to the staircase that spiralled it's way up to the balcony. A row that was already mostly full, requiring much apologising on my part, and shuffling from my new neighbours as I inched my way past.

When I reached my spot I looked at the space assigned to B10. It looked generous enough for one person, but I couldn't see how another person could possibly fit in, even if we all huddled up and breathed in.

That didn't seem right at all. 

The theatre gods were on my side though. And no one came to claim the mythical seat B11.

The cast soon emerged. In full 17th century glory.

I touched my lace collar, checking it was sitting properly. 

The ladies swished their heavy skirts as they took the stage.

I smiled at them, as a fellow fab-dress wearer, a deep sympatico stretching out between us.

Then I spotted something. Tied at their waists.

Pockets.

Proper, external, 17th century pockets.

My dress doesn't have pockets.

I stopped preening. 

I had been bested once again. 

They waved and nodded at the audience, greeting individuals. 

"Have you started yet?" asked the man sitting in front of me as an actor passed us on his rounds.

He laughed. "Sort of," he said. "You could say it's a meta theatrical pre-show."

Blimey. 

Then a dreadful thought occurred to me. 

What if B11 wasn't a seat at all? What if it was a cast member who was going to perch themselves next to me?

Oh gods...

The show started. The actors spoke to the audience. They handed over their hats and bid people wear them. They asked questions and shook hands. 

Every time they pounded down the staircase I froze. 

Please don't sit next to me. Please don't sit next to me. 

A fight broke out. A performer reached for the hand of a man sitting in the front row to help pull him free.  

There was no way I could cope with that level of audience interaction. 

I would die. 

Literally die.

I must have sent up a thousand prayers to the theatre gods during that first act. I promised them I'd finish my marathon. That I'd buy programmes. That I'd never come under-stocked with cough sweets. That I'd be the perfect audience member. 

Just don't let them sit next to me, I begged.

It worked. They didn't sit next to me. 

The theatre gods are cruel. But they are not unreasonable. 

Rose-tinted theatre

I’m going to like this place.

That was my thought the second I walked through the door of the Arcola.

I don’t know what it was that provoked such a strong reaction. Perhaps it was the pink coloured light that blazed out over the door. Or the fact that it was an easy walk from my work. Or maybe that being so close to an overground station, my journey home was going to be a cinch. The staff, bustling around in their branded aprons, demonstrating open friendliness and scary efficiency in equal measure, might have contributed to my thought process. The £1 playtext sale must have helped. And the huge yellow sign over box office proclaiming “Tickets” which is exactly the no-nonsense, anti-jargon, stance that I can get behind. But between you and me, I think it was the bench.

There, slunk low, just inside the foyer door, was a long wooden bench. Exactly the sort you would find in a school gymnasium. It conjured up memories of being five years old and doing bunny hops along the full length. Bunny hops were my absolute favourite thing to do in gym. Leaping about from one side to the other, while gripping onto the surface of the bench for support. The feeling of flying as you soared over the bench. The power in your arms as they take your full weight for that fraction of a second. It doesn’t get much better than that. Plus, no one is throwing anything at you and expecting you to catch it.

"Is this for Daughter-In-Law?” asked the woman at box office (or “Tickets”) as I gave my name.

Wait, what?

I looked around. There, to my left was a sign. “Studio 1.”

Shit.

Double shit.

Shit on a cracker.

The Arcola has more than one theatre.

The warm glow that had been sitting in my stomach at the sight of the bench wavered. I had another theatre that I needed to add to the list. 251 theatres in London. 252 now. And this was only number 25.

Shitshitshitshitshit.

I managed to fight through the pain and indicate that yes, I was there for Daughter-In-Law.

She glanced at the ticket.

"Now you'll have to go outside and back in. There’ll be a bell when it's time. I'm afraid no drinks are allowed in these seats."

But I wasn’t paying attention.

252 theatres. I wasn’t even a tenth of the way through my marathon and I’d just found out that another mile was being tagged onto the end.

I could feel myself boarding the Anxiety Express. I needed to think nice calming thoughts.

Tickets (real tickets). Programmes with full-page photography…

Wait.

"I think I ordered a programme?" I posed it as a question, but I definitely recalled seeing programmes for sale during the online booking process and I couldn’t imagine not sticking one in my basket.

"Let me check," she said.

"I mean, I might not have,” I prattled on, suddenly starting to doubt myself. “But I feel very strongly that I did."

She checked.

I had.

Phew.

It was still early, so I took myself and my programme over to the bunny-hop bench and had a flick through (really good by the way. An absolute bargain at only £2 online. £3 at the theatre. Lovely paper-stock. Interesting articles. Recommended).

As I stood, reading about D.H. Lawrence’s use of dialect, something jabbed at my leg. I tried to swat it away with my foot, but only succeeded in stubbing my toe. I looked down, fearing some creepy-crawly had got my leg.

A massive splinter was sticking out and clawing at the back of my calf.

The bunny-hop bench had betrayed me.

I felt less kindly to it after that.

I decided to go for a wander.

The bar looked nice. But busy.

Staff everywhere.

And on the wall… oh bliss… oh rapture.

Cast sheets.

Free for the taking.

Good lord. Programmes, real tickets and free cast sheets? Arcola, you spoil me, you really do.

See? I couldn't stay mad at this place for long.

Soon enough, the theatre bell rang as promised and people began to saunter out.

I busied myself tucking my cast sheet away in my bag, and by the time I looked up again, the door was banging shut after the last person had left.

I hurried after, heading back out into the street, rounded the corner and headed for the brightly lit door and the other end of the building.

Hmm. That didn’t look right.

Where did the lady on box office say I was supposed to go again? I hadn’t been paying attention.

Shitshitshitshitshit.

This was going to be another The Wrong Door situation again, wasn’t it?

The Anxiety Train going full speed by this point. I backtracked. I’ll just go back inside, and ask, I told myself. Like a normal, functioning adult. It’s fine. It’s all fine. There’s plenty of time. No need to stress.

I didn't make it that far. 

Just as I was about to head through the main door, I spotted another one. It was narrow. Barely a slither in the stonework, but there was no question, this was The Right Door. 

I must admit, I'd been a little worried about what sort of seat I'd get. Usually I just buy the cheapest and hope for the best. But this time, I levelled up. 15 quid for a value ticket instead of a ten pound restricted view one. I prayed to the theatre gods that it was worth it.

After making almost the entire length of my row stand up to let me past, I made it to my seat it the front row of the balcony. 

There was a pillar in front of me, but so narrow I forgot it was there within minutes. 

What I didn't forget was the cold.  

Eighty minutes is a long first act at the best of times, but when you're stuck in your seat, shivering, it can feel like an eternity.   

I thanked the theatre gods that I had remembered to back my shoe grips in my Theatre Survival Kit that morning. The pavements were bound to be icy by the time we got out of there.

Don't get excited. My Theatre Survival Kit, such as it is, is mainly composed of whatever crap I remember to shove in my bag to help me get through these very long days. Snacks and... well, mainly snacks. But also the aforementioned shoe grips on icy days, a folding fan for warm ones, and cough sweets all year.

Speaking of cough sweets... I reached into my bag. I've had a cough since Christmas, one that refuses to go away. It's always made worse when I'm stuck in confined spaces. Like lifts, or the tube, or theatres. I could already feel a small niggle starting at the back of my throat and...Shit. No cough sweets. I had meant to pop out over lunch and restock but I'd... forgotten.

I stuck my hand right down to the bottom of my bag, past my wallet, my book, my Tupperware and shoe grips, and explored the slightly sticky base, feeling in between the empty wrappers and forgotten receipts.

Ew, when was the last time I cleaned this thing out?

After much scrabbling around I found one, lonely, cough sweet. A little bit dusty from accumulated bag debris, but by that point I would have sucked on the contents of my hoover bag if it promised some relief.

This play better be worth it, was all I could think at that point.

How wrong of me to doubt them.

I should have known the Arcola wouldn't do me wrong. 

The first act flew past. As did the second. And I didn't cough once, well... not until the curtain call when I suddenly remembered about my tickely throat. 

Now, Arcola. You need to package this shiz. You and me. We can make a mint. Or rather... a cough sweet (sorry). Arcola's Awesome Cough Remedy: two and a half hours of relief - guaranteed! As approved by the overtired theatre-marathoners of London.

​​Call me, yeah?

Wet floor, warm hearts

I went to the Sadler's Wells archive in Finsbury library yesterday. It's not a theatre. Just records of a theatre. Stretching back hundreds and hundreds of years. They have massive playbills from the 1840s. And a letter from Margot Fonteyn’s mum to Ninette De Valois asking about ballet lessons for her daughter. It doesn’t count towards the marathon. But it was fun anyway, and if you're interested I have some photos over on my Instagram.

I got to visit the Sadler's Wells archive at Finsbury Library today. So many treasures! Including a letter from Margot Fonteyn's mum to Ninette De Valois asking about ballet lessons for her daughter, and Lilian Baylis' autograph (THE Lilian Baylis). If I ever go missing, it's because I've moved in there. You'll find me tucked up on the shelves between the 1840's playbills and the Tiffany blue storage boxes. . . . . . . . . . . #sadlerswells #finsburylibrary #margotfonteyn #antiqueposter #victoriantheatre #victorianprint #royalballet #royalballetschool #ninettedevalois #sadlerswellstheatre #sadlerswellsballet #lilianbaylis #theatre #theatreprogramme #theatreprogrammes #balletphotography #balletlovers #balletphoto #vintageballet #vintagetheatre #oldletters #lettersofnote #letters #theroyalballet

17 Likes, 0 Comments - Max Smiles (@vampire.soup) on Instagram: "I got to visit the Sadler's Wells archive at Finsbury Library today. So many treasures! Including a..."

Don’t worry, I did get to a marathon-qualified venue eventually. 

Even if the weather did its best to stop me.

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays this theatre-goer from the slow completion of her marathon.

Fucking snow.

If you can call it snow.

It was sleet at best. Or perhaps we should just call it slush. Airborne slush. That didn’t even have the decency to land on the ground before becoming dirty and grey and gross.

But I made it through. Me and my umbrella. Battling through the cold and wet to make it to Regent’s Park. Hugging the buildings the entire way to avoid the huge splashes of frigid water that lept up to bite my ankles with every passing car. My boots sliding around on the icy pavements. Unable to see through the curtain of snow that was pounding down on us all.

Turning the corner and seeing the warm lights of the New Diorama Theatre blazing out against the dark square was like being called home to a roaring fire and a pot of freshly brewed tea. I could feel my entire body relaxing. I had made it.

A few quick shots for my Instagram stories and I would be inside. I even thought I might order myself that tea.

I positioned myself in at the other side of the square, balancing the handle of my umbrella on my shoulder and trying hard not to think about chilblains as I peeled the mitten-portion of my gloves off my fingers.

Lined up my shot. Sign visible. Outside not too dark. Foyer welcoming. Nice.

Then my phone shut itself off.

Fuck.

I tucked my umbrella handle under my chin so that I could use both hands to turn it back on again, key in the code and relaunch the camera app.

A few minutes later we were back. The battery half-drained but no matter. I could deal with that later.

Prepped the shot again. Sign. Outside. Foyer. Welcoming. Nice.

The screen went black.

It had turned itself off again.

By this point my fingers were so numb I couldn’t even feel the power-button. I smashed at it a few times and hoped for the best.

Shit. The battery was dead.

Shivering by this time, I fought my way out from under my massive shawl and wrestled the zip of my bag open. There was no need to panic. I had a charger. Finding a black charger, in a black bag, with numb fingers however… tricky.

#GothProblems. Am I right?

My fingers eventually managed to wrap themselves around the wire and I hoiked it out.

Plug in. Smash button. Phone on.

We were back in business.

I got my photos, and sent my Instagram Story. I just hope my Instagram followers know what I go through for them. Ungrateful sods.

As I shook out my umbrella and pushed my way inside the theatre, I realised I wasn’t the only one suffering in this weather. Because there, shuffling around on the floor, where two staff members. I paused, hanging back, wondering what a person was supposed to do when confronted with the sight of two women crouched down on their hands and knees.

“That’s better,” said one of them, sitting back on her feet.

The other kept on going, wiping the ground with a paper towel.

They were drying the floor.

I made sure my feet were safely on the mat and wondered whether I should give myself a shake like a dog coming out of the sea. Or perhaps ask to be hung up somewhere warm so that I could drip-dry in peace.

I waited for them to finish before venturing over to the box office. A real box office! There might even be real... oh.

 "This ticket is recyclable. Please hand it in as you enter the auditorium," proclaimed the laminated pass I was handed.

Recyclable? Damn them. I can't even be annoyed now they've played to eco-friendly card. 

"Are their programmes?" I asked, more in hope than expectation.

I was waved towards a pile of freesheets stacked in front of me on the counter. 

That was something at least. I took two. 

But next to the freesheets was something else. Something far more exciting. 

A little tray. And in the tray... 

Badges!

I had already spotted them online while booking my ticket. But I hadn't expected them to be quite so big and shiny. 

My magpie eyes stared at them longingly. 

I had almost ordered one off their website. At two quid they are almost justifiable as a throw-in when buying a ticket. But my card hadn't gone through on the first attempt, and when I came round to try again the more sensible portions of my brain had caught wind of my intentions and put a stop to it.

But there they were. All enamely and gorgeous. 

I wanted one.

"Thanks," I said, pocketing my admission pass and walking away as quickly as I could. Stronger, yes. But badgeless. There were no winners here.

I decamped to the other side of the foyer to fold my freesheets and put them away, all the while sneaking glances a the badge tray.

A man came in asking about tickets to that night's performance. He asked a lot of questions. How much are the tickets? When does it start? Where is the theatre? Can I sit here?  (He asked that one twice).

I got the impression this was his first outing to a theatre. 

The woman on box office answered all his questions patiently and clearly. (He could indeed sit there). 

It was interesting to find out what a first timer felt he needed to know. But I didn't stick around to find out what else baffled him because the one and only sofa in the cafe had just been vacated and I was determined to sit on it.

Facing directly onto the floor length windows it was a prime snow watching seat, even if by then it was mainly rain.

Still, a great place to sit and read a freesheet. 

I was enjoying it so much I didn't realise that the queue to go into the auditorium had been building up until it had filled the entire foyer and was spilling out into the cafe - right in front of my sofa. 

Oops. 

I quickly gathered my things and positioned myself in the midst of all these people. 

For unreserved seating, the house opened very early. Ten whole minutes (in should have been five, but the show started late) for us to sit around getting to know our fellow audience members. A time fully taken use of by my neighbour who insisted on introducing his elbow to my ribs on multiple occasions, despite them already being well acquainted.

The little shit.

He stopped once the play started, clearly too engrossed to waggle his arms about.

Or perhaps I was too engrossed to notice. 

After all the buzz about this play which merges the 1938 Orson Wells radio play, and the spread of internet trolls, I thought that the hype around Rhum & Clay's War of the Worlds might have been fake news.

It certainly would have made a better blog post if it was. 

But I can't fault them for being excellent... can I? No. I can't. Or maybe...? No. Sorry.  

I even have to award bonus points for having the tech team positioned in a booth overlooking the stage so I could watch them in all their glory.

After being so close (and yet so far) back at the Charing Cross Theatre, it was nice to finally get my fix of techy goodness. 

Now if they could just fix my phone...​

Scratch that

7pm starts… man, they are a challenge. I don’t think I’ve ever walked so fast in my life, racing across London to get to the Soho Theatre in time for my show.

Apologies to everyone who encountered me. And most particularly to the poor guy at the box office who had to deal with my puffed-out mess when I finally got there.

"What are you here for?" he asked, when I finally managed to suck back enough air into my lungs to talk and give him my name.

Now there's a question. Who can even remember anymore? It’s a miracle that I manage to turn up to the right theatre on the correct night. Now they wanted me to remember what I was actually there for?

"Err, the scratch night?" I said, feeling like I was about to lose this quiz.

"The scratch night," he concurred with an approving nod. I'd got that one right!

My prize was one of the trademark Soho tickets. They have to be the most distinctive tickets in London. I certainly haven’t seen anything to match them yet. Bright pink. The colour of Barbie's Dream Car. They’ll sear your retinas right off if you look at them too hard.

I tucked it safely in my bag before too much damage could be done and headed to the bar.

One benefit off 7pm start is that I actually do get to see the bar.

The Soho Theatre’s bar is one of those places that I will always agree is great if anyone brings it up, but the truth is, I've never managed to have a drink in it. It's always been heaving to the point of unbearability every time I've been to see a show.

But yesterday, let the record show, at 6.45, I got a table.

I sprawled out on the banquette and luxuriated in the space. 

I can see why people think this place is nice.

Very comfy.

Very cool.

In a kind of show-posters-wallpapering-the-walls-and-neon-lights kinda way.

All the bright young things of Soho draped themselves over the tables as they talked about all the shows they were working on, generally adding to the aesthetic.

“We should go see this,” said one guy, picking up a flyer to show to girl he was with.

“Oh, yeah. I know him,” she said, jabbing the person pictured on the front of the flyer.

Of course she did.

Five minutes later, a bloke came up and asked to share my table.

Thirty seconds after that, there were three of us perched around the small square.

The dream was shattered. My time was up.

But it was glorious while it lasted.

Oh well.

It was nearly show time anyway.

I made my way back to the foyer.

A small gathering had formed at the bottom of the stairs. Our way bared by one of those thick red ropes, we we corralled on the ground floor.

"Have we got an estimated time of opening?" the usher said into her radio.

The crackly voice on the other end indicated it would be a few more minutes. We waited, stomping about and sighing heavily. The herd was getting restless.

The usher backed her way against the lift, keeping a close eye on us as she clutched at her radio lest we suddenly charge.

Someone tutted. It was 7pm. The show was already running late. 

The radio crackled back into life.

"The show on the third floor is now open. Chinese Arts Now Scratch Night on the top floor is open," she announced with obvious relief as we bolted for the stairs.

With unrestricted seating, it doesn’t pay to be slow.

"Anywhere in the first four rows," called the usher after us as we rushed into the auditorium.

As I dashed past her, I spotted a pile of paper on the bench outside the door. I lunged and grabbed one, not missing a step as I barrelled into the auditorium and dumped myself into a seat, spreading my coat and bag around me - marking my territory.

I plumped for the third row - the first one with a rake. Very important that. As a shorty, I need me a rake. Not that it was a particularly good one. The slight lift the third row offered only meant that I was given a hint of what was happening beyond the head of the person sitting in front of me. It was a concession to the idea of a rake, an acknowledgement that such things exist, rather than a full and proper attempt to give people sitting there any kind of view.

"Even the first paragraph is a lot. It sounds heavy, doesn't it?" said a woman in the row in front, peering through the gloom at her freesheet.

All those black walls, black ceiling, and low lighting, doesn’t make reading easy.

But I gave it a go, inspecting my own freesheet.

It didn’t take me long to spot the name of the venue I work for.

Written incorrectly.

If I would ever dare give a piece of advice to artists it is this, double check your credits before handing over your biography for public consumption. It’s embarrassing for everyone involved when you don’t know how to spell the venues that you’ve performed at. Especially when you return and I have to correct it for you (because I do actually proofread and edit the biogs that come through me… just saying, Soho Theatre…).

And look, I'm not insinuating that poorly proofread paperwork is my hell, but it was rather warm up there… It was almost like I was getting punished for all my complaining about the cold yesterday. “Oh, you want it warm, do you?” laugh the theatre gods. “Don’t worry, we’ll make things real cosy for you.”

I rolled up the sleeves of my jumper, trying to remember what I was wearing underneath. Or if I was in fact wearing anything underneath.

I was. Heattech. Worse luck. As the festival organiser was already giving us the hosuekeeping speech and there was no time to wrestle myself out of my sweater.

“There’ll be a short interval between the two pieces for the changeover. No time to go to the bar but time to pop to the loo.”

I sat still, thinking cold thoughts, and tried to concentrate on the performers instead,

I must say, I wouldn’t usually think somewhere like the Soho, especially their tiny upstairs studio, is the best place for dance, but it was wonderful to be so close to the dancers. Especially in a piece so focused on facial expression and small movement. 

Even working in dance I don't think I've ever got so close outside the confines of the rehearsal room.

What a treat.

As was the horsey helium balloon in the second piece. 

There was a post-show talk, but I wasn’t sticking around for that.

I snuck out, and offered a smile of apology to the dancers who were waiting in the bench outside. 

I’m sure everyone involved was perfectly fascinating, but I wasn’t losing my chance to be in bed by 10pm (literally all my hopes and dreams revolve around this one goal right now).

So off I went. Buzzed out of the door by the bloke on box office. Race back to the tube. Home via a short trip to Tesco. Fixed a hole in my favourite vintage dress. And in bed my 10pm.

Magic.

Theatre of Dreams

Last night I was at The Shed. It was a very strange place to find myself, considering The Shed is a theatre that no longer exists. Where it once stood on the Southbank, its towering red walls bright within the shadows of the National Theatre that loomed over it, there is now only empty space. The wooden walls have been brought down and cleared away. But my subconscious doesn't seem to have caught up with these developments. Because last night, as I slept, I went back to The Shed.

It's not enough that I spend everyday writing and thinking about theatres, working for one during the day and visiting the rest at night. They've now started to invade my dreams.

It was quiet a nice dream though. I did like The Shed. I'm sad it's gone.

Unfortunately, it doesn't count towards the marathon. On account of it not being a real place anymore, and me dreaming up the entire trip.

Thankfully, I do have a bona fide, genuine theatre, that isn't made of sleep-deprivation and the murkier portions of my imagination, to cross off the list.

For once, I was off to an area of London that I actually knew. A bit.

Hammersmith. It's on the Piccadilly line. And close to the river. And it's home to the Lyric. No, not that Lyric. The other one. The one that doesn't house the source of all my anxieties while holding itself together with duct tape.

The station also has two doughnut shops in it. Which I feel is just the right amount of doughnut shops, and is something TFL should be looking at rolling out across the tube network.

These are all the facts that I know about Hammersmith.

Or the facts that I did know about Hammersmith. I have a few more now.

Like: The Lyric Hammersmith has some excellent signage going on throughout the building.

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Yes, it’s all a bit cutsey. A bit… wannabe innocent-smoothie-copywriter-esque. But it’s big. And clear. And there is lots of it. Which is what we want from signage, isn’t it?

I found it all very soothing. It’s like Bach’s Rescue Remedy, except painted on a wall and without the aftertaste of rotten flower petals.

Also: Usually when you buy tickets via GILT (tickets from £10 in the New Year’s sale still available last time I checked), the ticket you are presented with at the theatre is from See Tickets. You probably know the ones I mean. They’re pink and yellow, with a starburst effect. Kinda ugly.

Not so at the Lyric. Here you get a proper Lyric Hammersmith ticket. With their branding. Including a heart watermark, and the title formatted in a brush-stoke styley font that matches the signage. You can tell that they spent on lot on brand consultants, and they are damn well making use of it. Nothing will go unbranded. I bet even the loo roll is printed with some uplifting and adorable tagline.

It might sound like I’m making fun, but that’s only because I am so in awe of this commitment to all things Lyric Brand. Kudos to whoever is the brand guardian at the Lyric Hammersmith. You are doing great work. May the theatre gods bless and keep you safe.

Lastly: There’s a super lovely terrace. And we all know how much I appreciate a terrace. I spent some quality minutes out there, taking photos and contemplating the heads of the people wandering down below.

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Sadly, minutes were all I had, as it was time to head into the auditorium.

A few tasty signs later I got my ticket checked at the door, headed down a short red corridor and…

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What the actual fuck?

I stopped dead, blocking the doorway. It was only when the person behind me coughed politely under his breath that I managed to gather myself enough to move over to one side. And then I stood some more. Staring.

Gilt? Plaster mouldings? Crazy-ornate ceiling?

Was I hallucinating? Had the lack of sleep finally got to me?

No, I was fairly sure my imagination is not that good.

It was real.

My brain refused to believe it. There had to be some other explanation for what I was seeing. Perhaps, it suggested, firing up some long neglected synapses, I had wandered through a portal to another dimension while making my way down that red corridor. Or maybe, piped up another thought, I had neglected to change lines when I got off the train at Leicester Square, and had made my way to one of the West End houses instead.

But the terrace? I argued.

“The Garrick had a terrace,” snapped back my brain.

But not like that. It was an itty bitty thing. It didn’t have plants.

My brain shrugged. “A portal then.”

I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.

Final fact about Hammersmith: the auditorium of the Lyric theatre is housed in a separate dimension.

I took a few photos just to prove to myself that I had actually been there, that I had journeyed between two universes, and lived to tell the tale.

After that, I needed to sit down. The cognitive dissonance of stepping from a modern building into an Edwardian auditorium, full of curly architecture, was too much for me.

That may have been a mistake.

One thing that became very clear about this other universe is that the people are missing one of their senses. Either proprioception, or the one of the common variety. I swear every single person passing through the row behind me managed to thwack me across the back of the head.

I mean… maybe they saw me up on the terrace on their way in, and sensed that I was judging the top of their heads and thought I needed a good smack applied to mine. I know not. What I do know, is that I got a bit of a headache after the fifth person managed to introduce the corner of their handbag to my skull.

Thankfully it didn’t stop me enjoying the show.

Leave to Remain sounded very worthy when I booked it. And no fun at all. Thankfully, I was wrong. Very wrong.

It’s charming AF and was the cause of my second standing ovation of the year (my first was, unsurprisingly, at the Playhouse Theatre for Caroline, or Change).

I may have even had a little cry on the tube ride home.

Don’t judge.

I am very tired.

Travelling to another universe will do that to a person.

And might go someway to explaining my dream about The Shed.

Still, inter-dimensional portals or no, I look forward to returning. And I don’t even need to wait until next year on this one! The Lyric has a studio space that I have to see. I might even treat myself to a doughnut to eat on the terrace.

I am not a number. I am a three man

I’ve been giving a lot of big talk about small theatres in the past few blogs, but this next one looks upon them and sneers at their hulking coarseness. Where the Ambassadors and the Garrick are lumbering about, weighed down by fancy architectural flourishes and Grade II listings, the Union Theatre zips nimbly around them, laughing at their twirly bits.

Twirly bits aren’t the only things they’ve done away with.

When I arrived at the box office (perched on the end of an already small bar) I was handed a large purple disk emblazoned with the number 3 that looked like the sort of plastic tag a bored-looking shop assistant will hook onto your hangers in a shop’s changing rooms.

“Have you been here before?” asked the youngest box officer I had ever seen (I swear it’s not just me getting old).

I had to admit that I had not.

She explained the system. Once the doors open at 7.15, we’d be called into the auditorium in groups. First the 10 people with a number 1 on their disks, then the number 2s, then the 3s etc. Thus ensuring that those who had arrived earliest got first pick on the unreserved seating.

Neat system. I like it. Removes the stress and queuing that so often goes with unreserved seating.

Pressure off, I had the chance to explore.

The Union Theatre doesn’t have a foyer. As you as you walk through the door, you fall straight into a cafe that looks like it was modelled your cool friend’s kitchen. You know the one, the friend who has mismatched cutlery picked up from French flea markets, and collections of found objects arranged in a fresh and original manner, that you feel confident you could emulate in your own home, but you know deep down would only look like a towering pile of rubbish if you ever actually attempted it. The friend who reads Dostoevsky. In the original. But will only roll their eyes if you express amazement at this and ask you what you think about the new Doctor Who. The friend who only looks put together, and yet effortless. At the same time. The friend who would hate if you didn’t love them so much. Yeah, that fucking bitch.

That combined with the massive tables built for sharing and the chill vibes radiating off the staff makes for a really relaxed atmosphere. Tables are filled with strangers as they perch next to each other to read or have a drink. The director was even having his dinner at one.

All this general bonhomie floating in the air must have softened my newly-sharpened corners because I soon found myself in conversation with a fellow theatre-goer on all things Ibsen. Or rather, I was talked to about all things Ibsen. I don’t have a great deal of Ibsen anecdotes at my disposal, so my new friend had to do most of the heavy lifting on that one. Thankfully, before the load of carrying the entirety of the conversation grew too much for them, their number was called and they were off, guided behind the heavy red curtains, through the great double doors, and into the theatre.

A few minutes later, it was my turn.

I tried to get a photo of the inside of the auditorium, but the combo of me being a terrible photographer and the lighting being very… atmospheric (lit: dark. Or rather, unlit: dark) I couldn’t get anything remotely worth looking at. Unless you enjoy peering at murky-dark images, with only the shadows for highlights.

So, let me paint you a picture with words.

It’s a brick-walled room. Seven rows of seats. Green upholstery. Comfy. Excellent rake. Sound desk to the right. Staircase upstage. Lighting rig overhead. There’s a freestanding set that can be spun around to form a building caught mid-build, to a town-hall platform, to the interior of a house. Nifty.

The space is so small, and yes: intimate, that even from my position in the very-much-not-the-front-row I felt utterly immersed in the action.

The good kind of immersed. Not the actors-threatening-to-interact-with-me kind of immersed.

The construction noises were very effective. Really effective. A low rumbling on the edge of hearing gradually grew into a thundering roar until my chair was vibrating as the noise intensified still further and then slowly died down, finalising off with rhythmic metallic clangs. They were very familiar sounding clangs. Very familiar. I could have sworn I had heard that sound earlier that day. And not on a building site.

And that’s when I suddenly remembered that I was sitting inside a theatre built underneath a railway arch.

And the rumble was a train passing over our heads.

It was a bit like stepping out of a dream when I staggered back into the bar during the interval.

I was fully not prepared to chat to anyone, no matter how chill the vibes or communal the large tables.

At these times I would usually bury my head in the programme, but being the spry and nimble theatre this is, there weren’t any.

And then I realised, with no ticket, and no programme, I would have no physical evidence of ever being here. No memento for me to take away.

Oh dear.

This was bad.

What was I going to do?

My boxes and boxes of random crap picked up from theatres was going to be missing a representative from the Union Theatre. My collection would forever be incomplete. What on earth was I going to leave to my grandchildren?

“Do you have, like, a cast sheet or something?” I asked, driven more by hope than expectation.

They did. Tucked away, behind the bar.

Phew.

Panic over.

Now that I know that they have small bits of paper for me to hoard like a Golem of theatre ephemera, I can confidently make the decision to really like this theatre. I’m going to come back a lot, I think… starting next year.