Climb Every Mountain

Six minutes before my show is due to start and I'm jogging down a deserted street trying to find the way into this damn building.

I must have come a funny way because I've been here before, and yet nothing looks even slightly familiar.

Where are the rolling Teletubby style hills? Where are the multicoloured windows?

This looks like way to a sweat factory, not one of the most renowned dance schools in the country.

I'm back at Trinity Laban, you see. Catching a show in their Studio theatre this time around.

And hasn't it been a long time coming?

The people at Laban don't seem to use their studio all that much.

At least not for public performances.

There was one over the summer, but I had to miss it because it coincided with my moving down to Hammersmith. I thought all was lost. But just in the nick of time, they have programmed an alumni choreography showcase. Which means that I am now running down a wall of builders' hoarding, trying to find a way to get in.

I'll give Laban this, they know how to torture a girl.

I check the time.

Five minutes. 

Oh gawd.

I can't miss another studio show. Not after all the effort I went through to get in to this one.

It was not a matter of simply booking, oh no. I had to email the alumni department to request a ticket. I was a little worried about getting turned down. Not being an alum, or even in the industry, myself.

But there was nothing in the copy to say it wasn't open to the public, so I took a shot.

And sure enough, a few hours later, I was emailed back with the affirmative, I could absolutely go.

I round a corner. A sign points out the main entrance. Through a gate. And there it is. In all it's children's TV show glory. 

No time to admire it though. Hefting my bag over my shoulder I sprint my way down the path, slowing down as I near so that the security on the door doesn't worry about what the strange woman puffing away in a (fake) fur coat is doing in this bastion of dance.

A couple of dancey looking people are leaning on the box office chatting to the woman behind the counter, but I don't stop. The email said to go right through to the studio.

A small sign on a stand points to way. "Bite Size Pieces," it says, with an arrow.

I follow it's direction. Down the corridor. Past the entrance to the main theatre.

There's another sign waiting for me at the end.

"Bite Size Pieces. Studio Theatre. Second Floor."

I keep on going.

There's a staircase down here. A rather dramatic spiral of a staircase, that looks like it was hewn by Morlocks many millennia ago.

Up the stairs.

One floor.

Then two.

I find myself in another corridor, lined with pink lockers against azure blue walls.

A small group are waiting on a bench.

I dither, not sure who's in charge, until I spot the one holding the clipboard, and go over to her.

"Do I need to give my name or...?" I say.

As reply, she hands me a freesheet.

"Do you know anyone involved tonight?" she asks.

It's not an unfriendly question, but it fills me with dread. I've been asked this question so many times on this marathon, and every time I hate it just a tiny bit more. While for the asker it's probably little more than a conversation starter, but for the askee it is something else entirely. A demand to justify their presence. An explanation of why they are there. I hate it. I really really hate it.

"Err, not really," I say. "More of an interested party."

Yeah, I funked out. I don't want to take about my marathon. Not tonight. 

"Have you come far?"

"Finchley," I say with an exaggerated sigh. "Yeah. Really far. Bit exhausted. I've just run around the entire building. It's been ages since I was here last, and couldn't remember how to get it."

As soon as I say it, I realise it was a mistake.

"Did you study here?" she asks.

Shit.

"No..." I admit. "But I know lots of people who did."

That's almost true. I know one person who did.

She nods, expecting more.

Double shit. Time to pull out the big guns.

"I used to work at Sadler's, so..."

I let that sentence hang in the air. It's true enough. I did work at Sadler's. Only left a few weeks ago. That fact that I was in the marketing department and not programming is neither here nor there.

The woman with the clipboard realises that she's not going to get anything else out of me, and leaves me to it.

More people have arrived. Students by the looks of it. No wonder clipboard lady was so interested in me. 

Down the corridor, the grass green door to the theatre is opened.

Two people take up positions either side, holding stacks of freesheets.

We all go over and line up.

"Do you want a...?" asks one of the people on the door, holding out a freesheet.

"I have one..." I start at the same time as she recognises me and says: "Oh! You have one don't you?"

Inside we go.

It's large.

Much larger than the words 'studio theatre' would suggest.

The stage is floor level. The walls lined with blackout curtains, no doubt hiding those massive multi-coloured windows. 

I walk around the bank of seating, and gravitate automatically towards the end of the third row.

The seats are hard plastic. I don't think I've seen the like on my marathon so far. Usually, theatres at least pretend that they are providing at least a minimal level of comfort for their audiences, but this arrangement is so spartan it could only have been dreamt up by someone who spends more time dancing around than sitting down.

I have a look at the freesheet. Four pieces tonight. With a ten minute pause in the middle. Not an interval, you may note. But a pause.

I take a moment to ponder on the difference between the two. A pause tends to suggest a set change. A gap between performances lasting three to five minutes. I don't think I've come across a ten minuter before.

I guess in this context, terming it as a pause is probably due to the lack of bar.

The woman who tried to give me a freesheet steps out onto the stage and introduces herself. She's Lucy and she works in alumni relations.

"I made a mistake on the freesheet," she says holding it up. "Laure and Liwia are actually the other way around. That's the third and fourth piece. And after the show, there will be a drinks reception. That's a chance to talk to the artists and ask them any questions about their work. That will be taking place in Studio 3, which is the one just opposite the theatre." She points over our heads, in the direction of the studio.

And then it's time to start.

Everyone quickly glances at their freesheets before the lights dim and the first piece starts. Antigone Gyra appears in the midst of a huge spotlight, leaping about so energentically her headscarf falls away and her long hair streams out behind her as she dances. It's a short piece. Fifteen minutes or so, but she packs in a lot.

As the applause fades, the next dancer readies himself. We all gasp as Panayiotis Tofi presents us with the startling image of an upside down and headless man. As he moves around, his body appears animalistic, bestial almost. The music is dark and grinding, making my heart thump alarmingly in time with it.

As we applaud again, I grab the freesheet. The score is by Eric Holm. I wouldn't want to meant him on a black night.

Lucy comes back out to explain the reason for the pause. The first two artists are off receiving feedback on their work.

I go back to the freesheet.

Reversing running order, the next piece should be by Liwia Bargiel. It's about the physicological impact memories have on the body, which sounds very impressive. "The dancer interacts with the audience to illuminate new perspectives on individual bodily experiences."

Oh dear.

Oh dear, oh dear.

I'm not sure I'm quite up for that. I had more than enough interaction last night to keep me going for the rest of the marathon. I'm really not sure I can cope with more right now. Especially dance interaction. Dance interaction at a showcase. A showcase where the artists are receiving feedback. I don't want to do the wrong thing and ruin it somehow.

I try to slink down in my seat, but the plastic is really unforgiving.

I tell myself that she won't pick on me. Not in an audience of students. She'll reach out to someone she knows.

Still, as the lights go down, I find myself sitting very still, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible so as not to draw attention.

But when it comes to it, the interaction is nothing more than her sitting on a chair, and breathing some scientific theories into a microphone.

Last up, Laure Fauser, who is very much not keen on ever trapping herself in an office. She tears around the stage and falls to the ground in despair at the thought of being strapped into a skirt suit every day.

I can't blame her.

Serving the great god of capitalism is no way to live.

One last round of applause and it's time to leave.

Oh, yeah. I'm not staying for the drinks reception. Let the young people pick the brains of these talented folks.

"If you'd like to join us for drinks in Studio 3, you're welcome to stay," Lucy reminds us.

I walk quickly off to the other door, and scurry down the stairs anyone spots me.

Back through the empty corridors, and past the lone security guard. I just hope I don't get lost in the rolling hills outside.

Feeling fruity

I'm taking you to Applecart Arts tonight. Yeah, I don't know what to expect either. I don't know anything about this place. Other than the name is making me hungry.

It's one of those venues I only found out about mid-marathon. So, I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself that I managed to schedule in a little trip. Even if it does mean that I'm walking down a very long, very dark, street in Upton Park on a Friday Night.

I squeeze through a couple of parked cars and cross the road, stopping to inspect a glass door with a sign saying Applecart on it. It doesn't look like the sort of place you'd watch a play. For a start, it looks closed.

I keep on walking. And sure enough, there's a great big yellow banner on the wall. And a giant hand pointing the way. Two of them, actually. One points to the left. "Main Entrance," it says. Another points the other way, back towards the glass door. That's the stage door apparently.

Okay then.

I go left, through a short iron gate, and I appear to be standing in front of a church.

Honestly, I don't know how I got this far without guessing that. A fringe venue, in outer London, with a cutsie name. Of course it's in an old church.

The door is open and the lights are blazing.

I go up the steps and slip through the wooden door.

Inside it's a cafe. A rather cool looking cafe. All vintage furnishings and tables made out of packing crates.

And in the corner, over the counter, is a sign saying "Box Office." Looks like I'm in the right place.

"Are you here for the show?" asks the guy behind the counter.

I sure am.

I go over, pulling off my gloves. "Yeah, the surname's Smiles?"

"Right... have you bought a ticket already?"

Yup. I don't travel the entire length of the District line without a booking waiting for me at the other end.

"Sorry," he says, clicking at his laptop, "I'm just setting up the box office, What's the name again?"

"Smiles," I repeat. For such a simple name, it proves to be quite tricky. People always think they've heard it wrong. That's why I usually end up spelling it out.

"Ah!" he says, finding me on the list, "There you are. You don't actually need an actual ticket."

But I'm not paying attention, because I'm just spotted a pile of beauties sitting out on the counter.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask.

"Yeah! They're one pound."

Perfect. I pull out my purse and start rummaging around, but all I can find are useless coppers. "I always have loads of pound coins until I actually need one," I laugh, trying to explain why it is taking me so long to purchase a damn programme. Finally, I find two fifty pees, hand them over and am able to retreat in my poundless shame.

There's no one else here. I have the pick of seating choices. And while the leather wingback armchair does look very tempting, I'm heading straight for the petite chaise longue because it's a Friday night and I'm feeling extra.

It is at this point that I begin to wonder if this lonesome state is going to extend throughout the evening. You know that's a big fear of mine, Being in an audience of one, I mean. With me being the one. I really don't think I could cope with that.

So it's with some relief that I spot someone else coming through the doors.

He gives me a nod and goes over to the counter, ordering himself up a toastie and a glass of wine.

And then he asks how things are looking for tonight.

The box officer leans in and gives him the figures.

The good news is that I'm not the only one to have booked in tonight, the bad news is that this newcomer works on the show.

I sure hope the others turn up.

I send up a short prayer to the theatre gods, and try to distract myself by editing a blog post.

But all the time, I'm watching that door.

Just as a start giving up hope, a woman comes in. She goes over to the box office. I hold my breath, hoping she's not on a purely toastie-based mission. She's not. She's buying a ticket, and she's paying cash. She throws down a ten-pound note onto the counter with an alarming confidence before taking a seat on the other side of the cafe.

After that, more people come through the doors, sign in, and take their seats, until we are an almost respectable number.

"Can I get a cider?” one of them asks.

"Course you can!"

"I don't need a glass."

The box officer sighs. "I have to give you one, I'm afraid. But they are biodegradable!"

The time inches closer to 7.45. Show time.

"Does anyone want a programme before you go in?" calls out the box officer. "One pound?"

No one responds.

"In that case, the house is open!"

He runs outside and waits for us.

I pick up my bag and make for the door.

He's stood at the bottom of the steps.

"Just through there," he says, pointing the way. There's a small gate over there. And through it, what I presume must once have been the church hall.

I go in, finding my way through the corridor until I find the entrance to the theatre space. It's narrow. With a high stage at one end. But the stage is covered with stacks of chairs.

Instead, the set has been built at floor level, taking up one of the long sides, with a bank of seats up against the opposite one.

I go find myself a seat in the third row, because that's my fave, but in the middle, because even with our increased numbers, I don't think we're going to be filling up this space, and I don't want to be the awkward penguin sitting over in Siberia on the end.

Toastie-dude is sitting in the corner. At the tech desk. So that explains his role here.

"Thank you so much for coming with me," whispers a bloke to his companion as they sit down in the row behind me. "I've wanted to come for ages and I live just down the road, and I feel we should support these things. For the community."

Bless him coming up with that excuse to shoot his shot. So adorbs.

No sure I would have taken my crush to a play called The Affair, but it is billed as a farce, so maybe he knows what's he's doing after all.

As Claudio Del Toro's Gustavo appears dressed as an Edward Gorey illustration, with a lovelorn sigh on his lips, I think that the bloke sitting behind me might be onto something. Gustavo wants to ask his lady a very important question. The most important question.

But first...

"What's the time?" he says, looking at me.

I shrug. I don't know.

"You don't know the time?"

I mean... no? I could get out my phone, I guess. But that's meant to be off.

It isn't. But it's supposed to be.

I hold up my wrist to demonstrate the lack of watch.

He looks over me, to a couple sitting just behind my shoulder. "Do you know the time? It's really important. Does anyone?"

"It's ten to eight!" calls back the bloke.

And with that, I know it's not going to be an easy play. There's going to be interaction.

Oh dear.

I'll give the marathon this though: having actors talk to me doesn't terrify me as much as it once did. Don't get me wrong, I still hate it, and will never again willingly book for an interactive show once the clock hits midnight on 31st December. But I don't want to die at the thought of it. Which is good. It would be terrible to die this close to the end, with less than thirty theatres left to go.

Even when his beloved appears, the vain and dippy Daffadowndilly, played by Amy Gibbons, Gustav can't leave the audience alone. He threatens to spray a shower of wine across the confident girl sitting upfront, before shaking his head in contriteness. When Daffadowndilly accuses him of having dandruff, he turns to the audience with pleading eyes to help him think up an excuse for the whiteness on his shoulders.

"Flour?" suggests the girl sitting behind me.

"Flour!" he cries in relief.

"Flour," nods Gibbons, accepting this answer.

Things only get worse when the other woman arrives, Shea Wojtus' Lark.

Gustuv clambers over the seats in search of his proposal worm (don't ask, I'm not sure I could give you an answer that makes sense here) and narrowly avoids stomping all over my coat.

The door opens.

We all look over.

Even Lark, from her position hiding behind a picture frame (again... best you don't ask) looks over to see the newcomer.

It's a man. He glances from stage to seats, dithering, unsure what to do.

Wojtus waves at him from behind the frame and indicates that he should take a seat.

He does as he's told, climbing up the steps towards the back row, walking across the full length, making everyone sitting back there shift and stand and move of his way, before plonking himself down in the far corner.

This is a man who really doesn't like audience interaction.

We all make it to the interval though.

I pull my scarf out of my bag and wind it around my shoulders. Turns out it wasn't the terror of having an actor almost step on my coat that was making me shiver. It really is freezing in here.

A few people head for the bar, but most stay behind, chatting quietly.

I get out my phone and start editing a blog post.

"Dada, dadada, dadadada," sings the tech guy, returning to his desk and turning on the music. He hums along with it for a minute.

Someone else appears. "Sorry ladies and gentlemen," he says, stopping on the stage to talk to us. "They lost a little something and I just went to find it. We'll be starting in five minutes."

"Don't worry about it," says on of the blokes in the row behind me, very generously.

The tech guy looks up from his laptop. "What part of London is this?" he asks the room.

"Plaistow," comes the helpful reply.

Is it? I thought we were in Upton Park. Are they the same place? I have no idea. I just go where my spreadsheet tells me.

The audience starts to come back from the bar.

"It might be good to sit on the other side," they're advised. "To balance it out."

Audience balanced out, it's time for act two, and our Gustav wastes no time in offering out a bowl of crisps to the audience. One by one everyone turns him down with a shake of their heads. Which, I respect, but my stomach is growling over here and just as he's about to turn to me, he knocks over a cup and the bowl is taken away.

Gawddammit.

When he returns, he is sans bowl. And he's still looking for that earthworm.

He finds an empty chair and sprawls himself on it, twisting around to clutch at my arm in despair. That poor earthworm, alone and frightened, somewhere in this freezing cold arts centre.

But even with an earthworm as distraction, he couldn't keep the inevitable at bay. The two woman are fully aware of his scandalous behaviour and are not happy about it.

They slap him, again and again, one after the other.

Gustav reaches out for help.

I reach back, offering him my hand, but Lark isn't having it. "Don't help him," she says, pulling him back for another slap.

He accepts his fate after that, even offering the confident girl at the front a go.

She raises her hand high above her head and his eyes widen in horror, but when his palm lands, it's only a gentle tap. She gives it a good go. Slapping one side of his face, then the other, then going for an innovative two-handed move.

Slightly dazed, he looks over to me.

"Would you like a go?" he asks.

I wouldn't definitely not like a go. That is so not my thing.

I'm not saying that I've never slapped anyone, because that would be a lie. But when I slap someone, I do it for real. I'm not into pretend violence. I mean... I'm not into real violence either. I don't even like shouting. But sometimes... well, sometimes...

Thankfully he takes my frantic hand waving well, and leaves the slapping to the professionals.

And after some applause, and a request to tell our friends if we enjoyed it (and to shut up if we didn't) it's time to go.

My stomach rumbles as I slip back through the gate.

I probably should have tried one of their toasties.

¿Dónde está el teatro Cervantes?

I'm lost.

I shouldn't be lost.

I'm in prime theatreland. Within stepping distancing of the Vics, young and old.

And yet I have no idea where I am or where I'm going. All that I do know is that I'm rather embarrassed about the whole thing.

I check the website for tonight's theatre. They have a ‘How to Find Us' page, which I am desperately in need of. I scroll down to the ‘By tube' section.

"3-minute walk (2 minutes if you’re running late!) from Southwark tube station (served by the Jubilee line)." Well, I got out Southwark tube station a good deal more than three minutes ago, and I've been walking in circles ever since.

What else does it say?

"Arch 26, Old Union Arches, 229 Union Street London, SE1 0LR."

Right. Well, that's not at all useful. I already put the postcode into Google Maps. That's what got me into this mess.

I keep on walking, squinting down every alley I pass, but nothing looks right.

A huge iron arch tops one of them.

"Old Union Yard Arches," it says.

The website didn't say anything about Old Union Yard, but if I'm looking for an arch, then this seems like as good a place as any to find it.

I step in. There are indeed lots of arches in here. There's the Africa Centre, the windows filled with bright light and colour. I keep on going. Arch 27. Okay. That seems promising. The next one must be...

There we are. Cervantes Theatre. I've found it.

I push open the door.

Wood mixes with bare brick. There are pot plants dotted around. I see we're visiting the chicer end of the fringe spectrum this evening.

At one end of the foyer, there's a small desk, Dark wood with barley twist legs.

I go over and wait for the girls in front of me to finish up.

Giggling, they disappear up the stairs together.

My turn.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?"

The box officer frowns. "Sorry, what's the name?"

"Smiles," I say again. Slower this time. My voice is still jacked from that awful cough I had. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

"What a beautiful surname!" she says as she looks through the tickets.

"Thank you." It is rather nice.

"Here's your ticket," she says handing it to me. She leans forward and grabs a booklet from the display at the front of the desk. "And a programme. Doors are in fifteen minutes and there's a fifteen-minute interval. Thank you!"

I blink at the booklet in my hand. A free programme. Yes, an actual programme. Not a shitty freesheet masquerading as a programme. This is a proper booklet. Eight pages. Professionally printed.

I'm mentally upgrading this place from chic-fringe to fucking-fancy-fringe.

Taking the lead of the giggling girls, I go up the stairs.

There's a twisted neon chandelier thing up here. All sharp angles and metal frame. From the tip hangs a small Christmas ornament. A tiny glittery star.

I keep on climbing and find myself in the bar. Housed under the curved roof of the railway arch.

Above our heads, a rail rumbles past.

No one looks up. They're all too chill. Lounging around in curvey armchairs and chatting quietly about the play we're seeing tonight.

House of Spirits. Based on a book apparently. One I haven't read but these people clearly have.

"Only in the English," one woman clarifies humbly.

"Oh, I've read it in the Spanish too," says her friend.

"Yeah... I should do that."

I can't do that. I can't speak Spanish. Not even a little bit. Not that I haven't tried. I took Spanish for a whole year at school, before realising that I couldn't pronounce anything and I should just stick with French. Although, I can't speak French either, so that was a waste of time too.

Oh well. The play tonight is in English at least. I checked. More than once. Because it's also being performed in Spanish, on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Switching to English on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.

Today is Thursday. English day. Suitable for monoglots like me.

I lean against the railing and look down the stairwell as I edit a blog post.

From the corner of my eye I spot something moving. I look down. There's a ledge halfway up the stairs, onto which a trailer is being projected. Fucking hell, that really is fancy.

Behind me, the barman rings the bell.

It's time to go in.

"Shall we go downstairs?" asks the girl who has read The House of Spirits in the original.

"Is that were the theatre is then?"

"Yeah. Downstairs."

Clearly, this girl knows what's she's doing. So I follow them down.

A door, tucked away at the end of the foyer, has now been opened. And a guy is standing there, tearing tickets. The queue moves slowly, as he stops to place each stub down on the edge of the box office table before moving onto the next person.

"There you go," he says to me, handing back my ticket.

In I go. Walking past a set of shelves set into an alcove. They seem to be stacked with props. Great big pots. A crucifix. An electric fan. A lamp.

I don't have time to inspect them all properly. The box officer is in here, checking the newly shorn tickets.

She looks at mine.

"Second or third row here," she says, pointing over at the central block of seats across the way. "Or you can sit here." This time she points to a side block.

I bought a ticket in the standard price range, you see. The front row myst be reserved for premium payers.

I look between the two. This kind of decision making is a bit too much for me on a Thursday night.

"Where ever you like," she prompts.

I panic. Then fall back towards my classic choice. Central block. Third row. Near the end.

I get out the programme and have a look at it. It's in English. Which is great. No Spanish at all. I wonder what they do on Spanish nights. They surely can't have an entirely separate programme for Monday to Wednesday shows. But perhaps they do. This is fucking-fancy-fringe after all.

I mean, just look at these chairs. They're really nice chairs.

Three blocks, set up around a floor level stage. There's a staircase up against the back wall, which has been drapped in the massive sheet of fabric that is serving as our set. It all feels a little bit familiar. With the staircase and all. A bit like the Union theatre, which must be pretty close by now that I think about it.

More people come in. A group. They sit right next to me. Not even leaving an empty seat to serve as buffer between us. Weirdos.

Now, I get that front of housers hate leaving gaps when the show is sold out, but I don't think that's the case tonight.

And as the box officer disappears, closing the curtains over the door behind her, I can see that while it's a healthy house, there's no damn need to be cosying up to people you don't know. And my new neighbour clearly just has problems with being alone. Even when they're with friends. Rather sad really.

The lights go down and we are plunged into a prison cell. A girl is dragged out in chains, and then, right be before our eyes, is tortured, raped, and left for dead.

Dear gawd.

What kind of novel was this?

Turns out, an incredibly brutal one. As we are swept back in time, back to the youth of that poor girl's grandmother, we are taken to a world of hardship, and death, and political upheaval. And a dog puppet. The dog puppet is great. The dog's puppeteer is great. That Gian Carlo Ferrini is doing wonders with the dog. If anything happens to the dog...

Gawd DAMMIT.

And all the while, our girl, Pia Laborde-Noguez's Alba, watches from the corner, sat by the prop shelves, pulling notebook after notebook open, to read over her family's history.

The lights go down once more. A moment of stunned silence, and then the applause starts.

I'm shivering, and I can't tell whether it's the play or the fact it's freezing in here.

The box officer reappears.

"We have now an interval of fifteen minutes," she tells us. "Can I ask you to leave the theatre please."

Once again I climb those stairs up to the bar, my legs feeling a wee bit wobbly and my head still spinning, I reclaim my place on the ledge and listen to the soothing sound of the trains passing overhead and trying to puzzle out all the posters written in Spanish.

I really should have tried harder in school.

Before I can figure out what month of the year "enero" is, the barman is ringing the bell again and it's time to reclaim our seats.

The girl is still there, in the corner, reading her notebooks.

The box officer stands guard by the stage so we don't traipse all over it.

I pull my coat up over my knees. Turns out, it actually is really cold in here.

The box officer leans out the door to check that no one else is coming, then closes the curtain, sealing us in.

And my friend, it does not get better. Sadness layers on sadness, and is squidged between two slices of pain, making up a Big Masochist ending.

Gawd it's good.

Applause done, it's time to get out of here.

As I pull my scarf out of my bag, my glasses ping out and skitter out the seats in front. I crouch down to grab them.

"Are you okay?" asks my neighbour, leaning down to check.

"Yes?" I hurriedly explain I was picking up my glasses, although I'm not sure what else I could possibly be doing down here.

The girls who had read the book stop over by the stage to pet the dog puppet, who seems to have been left behind for that exact purpose. I pause to say my own goodbyes. He's very cute. He deserved better.

I stumble out, into the yard, and head for the tube. As I walk, I realise I recognise this place. I stop, looking over at the arch next to me. It's the Union Theatre.

No wonder those stairs looked familiar. They're all in the same block.

So much for discovery all of London's theatres. I’m still getting lost.

Death of a Marathoner

"You do stil appreciate a three and a half hour film that starts at eight o'clock though," says a man with a soothing voice to his companion.

"Yeah," says the companion, doubtfully.

But he follows on willingly enough.

Three and a half hours. That's a hell of a long film. No matter what the start time. And it's an even longer play. What with the interval and all.

I've decided that I don't like intervals. Not just because of the extra time they add. But because their very existence means that playwrights think they can use them. When I finish this marathon and am crowned Queen of Theatre, the first law that I pass will be to ban intervals. Theatres will have to apply for special dispensation in order to break their shows in the middle. That'll see those run times tumbling down. No more waffling on with all those endless words. Playwrights will have to get to the point and wrap things up in ninety minutes if they don't want walkouts from people who can't cross their legs for longer than that. It will be the golden age of theatre. That is until the bar sale figues come through and ticket prices have to be hiked up in order to compensate, but by then I'll already have been exiled to some island where I will be forced to manage a little community puppet theatre where half the cast have been chewed up by the local cows. So, you know, I'm not really going for legacy here with my tyrannical rule.

Anyway, I'm back in the West End tonight, hitting up this theatre a little later than planned because of the small matter of their roof caving in.

Yup, I'm at the Piccadilly for a touch of Death of a Salesman.

Well, three and a bit hours of Death and a Salesman.

Still, it's nice to be back. I don't think I've been to the Picadilly since Viva Forever!. Yup. The Spice Girls musical. At the time it felt prescient that they'd tucked away that show in the most hidden West End theatre, far away from the gawping zombies wandering around Picadilly Circus. But it looks like the producers of Salesman have tried to counteract this out-of-the-way location by using the bright, pinkest pink that Pantone to come up with for the show's signage.

Pink seems to be rather the colour of theatre at the moment. The Place has Barbified themselves in their rebrand. Over on the other end of Shaftesbury Avenue, & Juliet has embraced the Schapirrelli. And now Death of a Salesman has got in on the action.

I can't say hot pink really screams Arthur Miller to me, but not gonna lie. It looks really good.

The pink positively glows out of the darkness. Making the rest of this cramped corner of London retreat into the background. I can barely even see the pubs and the cafes over this assault on my eyes happening in front of me.

And it's sure done its job. Even with the threat of having a whole theatre collapse on top of our heads, there's a queue of people waiting to get in.

But I'm soon through the door and into the foyer, where there is a massive box office right in the middle. One of those circular desks that makes me feel like I've just walked into the reception of Mode Magazine. And yes that was an Ugly Betty reference. I've already classed this up with the Spice Girls, might as well reach deep into the depths to pull out all my embarrassing viewing habits now.

"Next!"

"Next!"

"Next!"

The three box officers are powering through the queue.

It's my turn.

"Next please!"

I bounce over.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?" I say as quick as I can. We're working on a faster pace then the rest of theatre world in here. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

He nodes and goes to the pigeon holes in the back.

"Maxine?"

Yup. That's me.

"That's one ticket in the stalls," he says, pointing to the nearest door. "Next!"

"Any bags open, please!" says the guy on the door. He mimes opening a bag just in case I didn't get it. I open it, and clicking his torch into action, he gives the contents a quick sweep before waving me through.

Through the door. Down the stairs.

I find myself on a small landing.

More stairs lead down to the Stalls bar. It looks busy, even from up here. I don't think I'll be going in there.

Besides, I've spotted something far more interesting. There's a programme seller wandering around, holding out his wares in the classic fan formation so beloved by West End theatres.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask him.

He immediately spins round all big grin and even bigger energy.

"Of course you can, my love! That's four pounds."

"Do you have change for a tenner?" I ask, peering into my purse and thinking, not for the first time this week, that I really need to clear it out. "Oh! I have a five!" I say triumphantly, as I spot a green note crumpled up with an old receipt.

"Either is fine," says the programme seller.

I give him the five. Immediately regretting it. Fives are precious. Oh well. It's gone now.

"There's you pound change, and your programme. Enjoy!"

The auditorium is almost empty. Everyone is still camped out in the bar.

I walk to the front, near the stage and turn back, looking at the ceiling. Whatever happened up there the other week, I can't see it from here.

I reach into my bag and try to dig out my glasses, but there's so much stuff in there I can't find them. Oh well. Better find my seat now. The investigative journalism can wait until the interval.

Row G.

A. B. C. D...

There we are.

Two ladies are already on the end of the row.

"Can I squidge past?" I ask one of them.

She moves, and as I set down my bag next to them, she mumbles something.

"Sorry?"

"Orley's friend?"

I blink at her. I must have misheard. "Sorry, I can't hear you...?" I say, sliding down towards her.

"You Orley's friend?"

No? “No?"

"Oh."

She turns away. Our interaction now officially over.

I go back to my seat and start rummaging around for my glasses. They have to be in here somewhere. Umbrella? Check. Purse? Check. Makeup bag? Check. Collection of empty cough sweet wrappers? Check and check and check and check. But no glasses. Shit.

Okay, don't panic. It's not like my eyesight is that bad. I only wear them at the theatre. I'm sitting in the stalls. In row G. That's basically right in front of the stage.

It's fine.

My neighbour takes off her coat and starts arranging it on her seat. Setting up a cushion for herself, instead of shoving it underneath like a normal person.

"Sorry," she says, noticing me watching her fussing. "I'm trying to get comfortable."

I want to tell her that one of the key components of getting comfy is not trying to balance oneself ontop of a puffer coat, but I hold myself back. I don't want to get myself involved in another Orley loop.

Instead, I try to focus on my surroundings.

This requires a good deal of squinting.

But even without my glasses I can make out the hugely tall boxes on either side of the stage. And the pistachio green walls, which if you ask me, is a severely underused shade in theatre.

I'm starting to get a headache. I realign my vision to something closer. The chairs.

They're nice chairs.

They have scalloped backs. Very smart.

"Helloooooo," calls out my neighbour, flapping her hand in the direction of a newcomer. "Orley!"

Orley looks over. "Hellooooo," she calls back. "You're right at the end!"

"We were just talking about the collapse!"

"In Venice?"

"No. Here!" My neighbour gets out a small pair of binoculars and points them at the ceiling. "I can't see! I think it fell further that way."

A voice booms out telling us not to take photos, and reminding us to turn off our phones. "Turn them OFF!"

Bit intense, but okay. I mean, I'm not actually going to turn my phone off. But I'll put it on airplane mode, which is practically the same thing.

As the lights dim, an usher runs forward and orders a man in the front row to remove his coat from the stairs leading up to the stage. Honestly, some people think theatres are an extension of their living room. Which I don't get at all. My living room looks nothing like this. It's a lot smaller. Although I am tempted to paint it green now.

Actors appear all over the place. In the boxes. Walking down through the stalls and up the uncoated stairs.

And... now, I admit this may just be because I've lost my glasses and everyone on stage is suffering from a severe case of blurry face, but... it's kinda dull.

In fact it's really fucking boring.

So, okay, I'm not a great fan of Arthur Miller. The Crucible is literally one of the most tedious plays I've ever seen. But this is just... the movement is so... and they're all talking in the most...

Yeah, I'm not into it. I'm like super not into it.

I let my eyes unfocus and I drift into my own little world, as the words just go on and on. For hours.

"Be careful someone doesn't stand on your coat!" warns my neighbour as I stand up to let her pass in the interval.

I give it a kick to get it out the way.

She raises an eyebrow and steps over the sleeve, which is still hanging limply in her path.

Oh well. I refuse to be precious about my possessions.

"Can I just leave everything?" asks my other neighbour, Orley's friend. She indicates the small mountain of possessions that she's piled up on her seat.

"Of course!" I say with a wave of my hands that I hope indicates that I am very trustworthy and responsible, and her puffer coat won't be receiving any kicks from me.

Now with space either side of me, I use the opportunity to twist back in my seat and look up the circle. It's empty. No one is sitting up there.

I consider chancing it. Evading the ushers and climbing all the way up to see what's happening up there. But, I have a puffer coat to guard. And besides, I'm worn out. This play is like a lead weight strapped between my shoulders.

I try reading the programme, but find myself just looking at the pictures, unable to concentrate.

If good theatre leaves you energised, then this must be one of the worst plays I'm ever seen.

Bloody Miller.

"I'm not moving again," snaps the young woman sitting behind me as someone tries to escape the row to go to the loo. Looks like I'm not the only one having trouble with that heavy lead weight. "It's ridiculous."

But as people return from the bar and the toilets and their smoke breaks, she manages to get up long enough to let them back in.

The second act starts and I sink into a stupor.

I don't care about any of these characters. They all talk too much.

Orley's friend leans over to her companion. "There's going to be a big bang," she whispers. "He's going to kill himself."

And with that spoiler still hanging in the air, there's a big bang. And he kills himself.

At last. It's over.

Okay, one more scene, then it's over.

Alright, this must be the final scene.

Oh, there's singing now?

Gawd. When will they let me leave already?

Blackout. Finally. And I find myself rolling my eyes so hard I almost groan with the effort.

All around, people get to their feet to applaud. But I can't do it.

That lead weight is holding me in place.

As the actors disappear off stage, I lean down to grab my coat before stumbling to my feet. I've never felt so tired in all my life.

Thirty theatres still to go.

Shake it off

I'm stuck somewhere in the middle of the junction between Shaftesbury Avenue and High Holborn, waiting for the traffic to find itself around all the road works. But even from my little island I can see the queues stretching all the way out of Shaftesbury Theatre and down the road.

People clog the pavement on both sides.

A wedge of solid humanity balancing on that small corner, and spilling right into the road.

The lights change and I manage to make it across the road, but that's as far as I can get. Every inch of this pavement is blocked.

Among the crowd people in waterproof jackets holding up small laminated signs with the logos of various ticketing companies on them.

I try to spot the familiar TodayTix red, but if they are here, I can't see them.

Looks like I'm heading to the box office. If I can even get in.

I join a queue at random. There seems to be at least three of them going on. And all of them have a mixture of people who are already clutching their tickets, and those feverously looking up confirmation emails on their phone.

"Where do we go if we have tickets?" sighs a young girl standing on tip toes to look around.

"I know, right?" says her friend. "This is so unhelpful!"

A woman standing in front of me flags down one of the waterproof coat crew.

"You don't happen to know where the box office is?"

He does. He points through the door where we can just about make out a sign stating "Box Office."

Right, well at least our queue is pointed in the right direction.

Slowly, oh so slowly, we eek our way through the doors.

"If you don't have a bag, you can go straight through," says a bag checker, ignoring the fact that there's nowhere to go. The foyer is just as rammed as the pavement.

I make it through the bag check and stand blinking in the entrance, trying to work out how the hell to get over to that box office.

In the chaos, a collection of people have gathered in what could almost be called a line. I join the end of it, and sure enough, we start moving, ever so slowly, towards the box office windows.

As the last person in front of me picks up their tickets, the woman at the window grins at me. I start forward, but the crowd have sensed the vacuum and is pouring into it.

But my box officer keeps eye contact, smiling encouragingly, drawing me through until I collapse out the other side.

"What's the surname?" she asks before I even have a chance to open my mouth.

I tell her, spelling it out in case she can't hear me over all this noise. But she's nodding. She's got it. And she's off to the back of the office to pull the Ss from their pigeon hole.

"Maxine?" she says, returning to the window.

That's me.

Okay then. I've got my ticket. I should probably go find a programme now.

There's a merch desk just behind me, and after a bit of shoving I make it through.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask, slightly out of breath after my exertions.

"That's seven pounds," says the merch desker promptly. There's no room for nonsense round these parts.

"Can I pay by card?" I ask, unsure I can summon up an entire seven quid in cash.

He nods and we go through the rest of our transaction in silence. I can't blame him.

By the looks of it, he's already sold hundreds of the things. I can see those shiny hot pink covers all over the place. I'd be sick of talking too.

No time to inspect the programme properly though. I need to get out of the scrum before I get trampled.

"Too many fucking people," growls a middle-aged man as he barges past me.

I stagger, clinging onto my hot pink programme as I regain my balance.I think I should probably go find my seat now.

I'm in the circle tonight. I follow the signs and go up the stairs, immediately feeling better as the crowds thin out. Crystal wall lights send simmering shadows skittering around the stairwell, soothing my battered nerves. I let my elbows drop out of their protective stance.

I've been to a lot of West End theatres at this point. Very almost nearly all of them. Only three more to go. So I think I've said everything there is to say about them. There are boxes and pillars and mouldings and velvet seats. And yeah, I like the Shaftesbury. It's a very nice theatre. Got all those Edwardian accessories that really do it for me. Just plush enough that you feel a bit fancy as you take your seat, but no so plush that you stress about the hole in your tights.

Excitement is high.

Now that everyone has made it out of the caning factory downstairs, the chatter is buzzing. Everyone gets out their phone to take a picture of the huge & Juliet sign on stage.

A performer appears on stage and serves up some quality b-boying action.

He's soon joined by a few other cast members and they get their groove on while the house fills up. I get up to let a couple past. The bloke steps right on my foot and I cry out in pain. He immediately leaps up and apologises. Which is a first. And much appreciated.

Still, doesn't no much for my poor crushed toes, which are currently throbbing away into my boot.

The cast is getting the stage ready. One of them dangles her legs off the edge of the stage and chats with the front row. Another is attempting to finish that sign. They get the first ‘o’ of Romeo rigged up, but there's no time to finish it off. We're starting.

Oliver Tompsett's Shakespeare appears. He's just finished another play and he's rather pleased with it. But as he takes his players through the plot points, he soon finds out that they're not overly keen on the ending. Even his wife is having trouble getting behind such a tragedy.

Something needs to be done. And Cassidy Janson's Anne Hathaway is the one to fix it.

Romeo and Juliet is getting a reboot.

With some quality pop songs to help matters along. The audience laughs with shocked delight as we're launched into Larger than Life. And I am fucking loving it. Yes. This is what I want. I too dislike Romeo and Juliet as a story. Not for the same reasons as Ms Hathaway, I must admit. But whatever, I can see no problem with tearing that damned story to shreds and packing it wall to wall with absolute bangers.

Plus, the having Romeo as a total fuckboy... let's be real. That's pretty much canon, isn't it? Finally, someone just had the guts to say it. So, when we get Jordan Luke Gage's version of him, dressed like an emo Ken doll, dancing on his own coffin, while wearing a pink rucksack and singing Bon Jovi... I am done. Spent. In love. 

And that's before we even get to Miriam Teak-Lee who is... I mean... that voice. That hair. She's just fucking everything. 

This is literally the greatest show I've ever seen in my life.

Yes, it is also the most stupid show I've ever seen in my life. But why does everything have to be clever? This is silly. And fun.

And... it's the interval.

Thank goodness, because my heart is pounding and I need a few minutes to cool off.

"I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this," muses the girl sitting in front of me. "It's very entertaining," she adds hurriedly. 

I get out the programme to have a look. That's lots going on it here. No boring biogs with a few cursory production photos to justify the price, oh no. There are notes from the director and the designers, and the book writer.

There's also a synopsis of the original play, just in case anyone in the world has managed to get to this stage in their life without absorbing the plot through cultural osmosis.

And an entire double-page spread about Max Martin. Slightly at odds with the more humble title of 'Who is Max Martin?'. But considering he's the man who pretty much soundtracked my formative years with all those Britney classics, I'll allow it.

The safety curtain is down. Reversed so it looks like we are the ones on stage.

A few people are happy to play along, singing not untunefully to the music still blasting out into the auditorium.

I use the opportunity to inspect the place.

These seats really are comfortable. And my view is top-notch. That's because the seating is offset. I have a clear view between the shoulders of the two people sitting in front of me. I don't know why all theatres don't have this. It's great.

And when the second act starts, I don't miss a thing.

And, I mean, I'm going to be real here. I'm not sure how I feel about the non-binary character. No shade against Arun Blair-Mangat or anything. Nothing to do with the performance. But something about the way this character is being treated is bothering me. And, you know, as a cis, very gender-conforming, person, perhaps I'm not the one to have an opinion on this, so I'd be real interested if a sensitivity reader was brought in to look at the script. Does theatre even have sensitivity readers? I'm sure it does. They're just probably not called that. Well, whatever. I hope there was one.

Because I really want to love this show. Like, I really want to love this show. I'm enjoying it so fucking much.

Over on the far side, an usher leans right out over the railing in his best Juliet impression to get a good look of the stage. He doesn't want to miss and minute, and nor do I.

And when the bows are happening, and the audience starts standing up to applause, I don't even hesitate.

You know I don't give standing ovations lightly, but here I am, on a chilly Tuesday night, ovating the heck out of this show along with everyone else.

"That was so good," says a bloke as we all make our way down the stairs.

"I don't usually like jukebox musicals, but..." replies his date.

"So good. So good."

"And so unexpected!"

Well, I for one knew it would be great.

But still, I kinda get what he means.

That shocked laughter I mentioned earlier. That wasn't a one-off. Pretty much every song got it's own giggle opener as we collectively, as an audience, recognised the song and worked out how it was going to be used.

Sometimes it was a bit... yeah, I'm still uncomfortable about May singing I'm not a girl, not yet a woman. But Anne ordering Shakey to do rewrites to the tune of I Want It That Way... well, that was fucking genius.

And now I have to hobble away on my injured toes, and make it all the way home without embarrassing myself by humming on the tube.

We both know I'm not even going to make it till Camden.

You Must Suffer Me To Go My Own Dark Way

Somehow, when coming up with the idea of a marathon of London theatre, I never considered mud featuring much on my list of woes. But here I am, squelching through the wet stuff, wishing I'd worn my wellies to get to the next theatre on my list.

I'm in Wimbledon. Which doesn't seem like prime real estate for mud-making, but here we are.

Pulling my apparently-unwaterproof boot free from a sticky patch, I hurry over to a slightly drier piece of land.

In the darkness I can hear the roar of moving water, but it's so dark, I can't make out where it's coming from until I'm on top of it. Literally.

I seem to have found myself standing on a bridge.

Which is lucky.

Certainly better than finding the water without the aid of a bridge.

I keep on going.

According to Google Maps, the Colourhouse Theatre should be around here somewhere. But all I can see are some dark buildings and what appears to be, on close inspection, a millstone.

I stumble around, feeling like I've stepped back in time. As if in crossing the bridge I'd gone through some Outlander style shit, but instead of landing in the Highlands and surrounded by a bunch of blokes in need of a razor and some boxer shorts, I'm instead in a Georgian mill town where hundreds of children are breaking their fingers on looms, or whatever it was that happened in these places. I missed that history lesson at school.

Up ahead there's some light. I follow it.

An A-board points tells me that there's a bar open.

I stare at the building.

It's old brick. Very mill like. Except for the brash panto posters stuck all over the place.

As I stand there, a young woman comes over to the door to close it, but pauses when she spots me.

Ah. I should probably head inside.

"Is this the right place for Jekyll and Hyde?” I ask a little doubtfully.

"Yup!" she says cheerfully, closing the door behind me.

That's a relief. Will all the signage pitching this very much in the children's theatre mode, I was getting a little worried that I had found myself at the wrong place.

There's some kind of event room on one side, and a bar on the other.

It's very colourful. And warm.

And there's a queue to get in.

That's good. Nice to know that I'm not the only one squelching her way through the mud on a Friday night.

The queue takes us through a narrow corner, where a box officer is cramped into a small alcove to tick off names as we pass.

"Hi!" I say when it's my turn. "The surname's Smiles?"

She looks down at her pieces of paper. "Which list are you on?"

I pause, not knowing how to answer that. "I booked online?" I chance.

"Ah!" she says, finding my name on the relevant list. "There you are. I don't need to give you a ticket. You can go right in. Would you like a programme?"

I definitely would.

"That's one pound."

I hold out my pound coin, all ready to go, and she gives me what I hope is an appreciative glance. I'd been paying attention you see. I don't just gawp around when I'm in a queue. Oh no. I'm watching the interactions happening like a damned hawk.

Programme in hand, I take my hawk-like self into the auditorium, walking alongside the hugely tall seating bank until I reach the front. It looks busy. Very busy. In front of the mountain of seating, there's even more chairs down the front. There are a few spares in those front few rows but I don't want to be placing myself and my cough that close to the action.

I turn in the other direction and start climbing.

It's dark up here. I'm having to squint real hard to make out the steps. But even so, I can tell that empty seats are at a premium here.

But, I think... yup. There's some going in the back row.

I climb all the way to the top.

A woman leans forward and waves at the empty spaces. "We're got two here, but the end is free," she says.

"Perfect!" I say.

"It couldn't have worked out better," says the woman.

She's not wrong. The one on the end is right in front of the staircase. Which means I get to nab all that tasty legroom to dump my stuff. And what a lot of stuff I have. Umbrella and jacket and cardigan and massive bag. I take up a lot of real estate in winter.

A few minutes later, those two seats are reclaimed by their owners. A couple of teenage girls, all laughter and lipgloss.

As they sit down they giggle and toss their hair about.

It doesn't take me long to figure out why.

There are a lot of teenage boys in this audience. A lot of teenage boys.

And they are all very aware of the two pretty girls sitting in the back row.

One chancer, sitting right up front, keeps on turning around in his chair to look at them. He grins, and even attempts a very bold wink.

The girls giggle and toss their hair in response.

These teenage mating rituals are put on hold as the box officer comes in to make an announcement from the stage. "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Can I have your attention for a minute?" she calls out. "Has anyone come in who I've not checked off my list, just so I know whether to hold it."

We wait.

"Anyone?"

A couple of hands raise and the box officer rushes around taking down names.

But it's not enough.

"Has anyone not checked in with me?" she tries again.

Nope. That's it. We're done.

A few latecomers arrive, and the box officer busies herself trying to find them seats.

"There's one here," says a man, pointing at a seat in the middle, covered in a mountain of coats.

"One there?" says the box officer, sounding more than a little stressed. "We're still got nine to come."

Nine?

I look around, trying to spot the empty spaces. I see three. Nine is going to be a bit of a challenge unless they all have their own Jekyll-Hyde split personalities.

Oh well. The doors are closing. Hopefully those nine didn't get swept away in the river.

Pat Abernethy and Dave Marsden step out on stage and get on with telling us this creepy tale of Victorian science gone wrong. Abernethy sits in his lab. Salts are measured, liquids are poured, vile looking concoctions are tipped back throats, and monsters are made. All the while Marsden runs around performing all the other roles.

The theatre door opens.

A family comes in.

A large family.

There must be at least three kids there.

They stand awkwardly, not knowing where to go.

Mum points out a couple of seats on the front row and pushes the youngest ones to slip into them.

A woman in the audience takes pity. She gets up and goes over to help them, wine glass in hand. Seats are found for all of them. Except now the woman with the wine glass has nowhere to put herself.

She looks around, and then spots a stack of folded up chairs leaning against the wall.

Very carefully she takes one, unfolds it, and sets herself up in the corridor.

Masterfully done.

This is clearly someone who has had a crack at ushering in the past.

Over on stage, Abernethy's Hyde is busy trampling small children and generally proving himself to be a bit of a dick. He's like one of those house guests that just refuses to leave, no matter how much potion Jekyll drinks, or how he mixes the salts. He's just there, sitting in that body, letting himself into the lab, and using the butler like his own servant. Oddly though, he does make a point of finding 'willing' women. So, you know. At least he believes in consent.

But even so, there's no help for him. Or that foolish Jekyll. And the poor sod of a doctor has to take the only course of action left to him.

Abernethy and Marston take their bows and then there's that slight awkward pause as they wait for the clapping to stop so that they can actually say something.

"We're doing the show again in January. If you know anyone studying it, it saves having to read the book."

"Only joking!"

Well, that explains all the teens in the audience.

"You can go past," I tell the teen girls from my row. I've got a lot of prep to do before heading outside. Cardigan. Jacket. Umbrella. I'm not taking any chances with that bridge.

No Body Likes Me, Every Body Hates me

The first thing you see when stepping onto the platform at Latimer Grove tube station is Grenfell tower. It looks over the station. The upper levels lit up. A green heart spotlit against the night sky. "Grenfell. Forever in our hearts."

There's no escape from it. Even when you leave the station. The Co-op opposite has a banner slung up one of the upper windows. "Justice 4 Grenfell."

As I walk through the streets to the Playground Theatre, I can feel it behind me. The tower. Looking over my shoulder.

I hope I'm not the only one it's hounding tonight.

I clutch my jacket close about me and check my phone. There's a message from Allison.

"I think I'm here!" it says.

I bring up Google Maps. I'm very much not here. Or there, rather. By the looks of it, I'm a good ten minutes walk away. And that's if I don't get another coughing fit stopping me in my tracks.

"I'm a few minutes late," I lie in my reply.

Just as I'm putting my phone away, the screen lights up again. Another message from Allison. "It's not busy at all."

Oh dear. I really don't like an empty theatre. Especially when I'm unwell. There's no one to hide behind when the choking starts. Then again, I also hate a packed theatre at these times.

As I stumble through the dark streets, I try to work out what percentage of fullness suits my current grotty condition.

Sixty-two percent.

I think that would work nicely. Full enough that I can visibly sink low in my chair and hide myself from the cast. But enough free seats so that I don't get someone else's perfume choices clogging up my throat.

I check my phone again.

I turn a corner and find myself on some sort of industrial estate. Pre-fab buildings line the wide street. From an upstairs window loud music pours out into the otherwise silent air.

I really should update Allison again on my whereabouts. Not that I think I'm about to be murdered. But I'm definitely about to be murdered.

But that's okay. I'm nearly there. That's it, over on the other side of the row.

At least, I think that's it. I can't think of any other reason that one of these stubby little buildings would be surrounded by cafe tables and parked cars.

I hurry over and make my way through the doors.

Inside it's bright and warm, with peach mottled walls and carved wooden doors. An aesthetic that would have given me serious Italian palazzo vibes if it were not for the fact that we were in the middle of an industrial park. By brain realigns, and categorises my surroundings more on the level of upmarket garden centre.

A great big chalk board points the way to the box office and I follow it around into the bar. Glass domes cover a cake selection, and wannabe Phillippe Starck Ghost chairs crowd around metal tables.

Allison waves at me.

I must look even worse than I feel because her smile immediately fades into an expression of concern. "How are you?" she asks in a tone that makes me think only politeness is preventing her from questioning: "what the hell happened to you?"

"I'm ill," I tell her, collapsing into one of the see-through chairs. On cue, I cough.

"You're coughing! Again!"

Yup. I'm coughing. Again.

Properly as well. Not just the cough that I've had for over a year at this point. But the type of really intense, hacking, cough that goes hand-in-tissue with the worst sort of man-flu.

But as I keep on telling my boss, I feel fine. Well, as fine as one can when you literally can't lie down without your lungs trying to escape through your mouth.

Probably not the best condition to be in when going to see an opera, but if I stayed home every time I coughed... well, I'd never leave the house ever again.

"So," I say, pulling myself together and getting out my phone. "There's a sign out there saying we should pick up a playing card." I turn my phone around to show Allison the picture I took. "What do you think that means?"

"I don't know!" comes the reply.

Well, okay. As long as I'm not alone in my ignorance.

I look around.

"It suddenly filled up," explains Allison as I take in the bustle surrounding us. "It was totally dead when I first got here."

A front of houser makes an announcement. It's time to go to our seats.

There's a slow stirring around the bar. No one is going anywhere fast.

As we pass the box office the young woman behind the counter calls out to us. "Hi ladies! Have you got your playing cards?"

"Have we?" I say, turning back to Allison, having completely forgotten the conversation we'd had all of three minutes ago.

"I don't even know what they are!" she replies.

The box officer smiles indulgently at the pair of us, clearly used to people being as useless as us.

"What's your surname?" she asks.

I tell her.

"Maxine?"

That's me.

"Great." She holds out two playing cards. They've been laminated, but that's exactly what they are. The Jack and Nine of Spades. Slightly beaten up and a bit grimy under their plastic coatings. "When you check in, you get playing cards, which you hand over on the door."

Ah, I see. They're admission passes. I should have guessed. They do the same thing over at Camden Peoples' Theatre. Except their ones are new and avoided the laminator in favour of a hole punch. Still, same idea. And very neat.

"And here's a free programme," adds the box officer, handing over a pair of freesheets. I turn mine over to look at it. No cheap photocopies here, oh no. This has been professionally printed. Satin finish. With the artwork on one said and all the credits on the other. Slick. I like it.

We go out into the corridor, passing the loos, and heading towards the entrance to the auditorium. As promised, there is someone on the door to take our cards from us. And then we're in.

It's a big room. Bigger than I expected given there can't be more than fifty-two seats in here. Not unless they added a couple of jokers to the pack.

The stage is floor level. The seats are all lined up on a raked platform. The type of seats that you'd expect to see at a wedding reception. With gold frames and velvet backs.

"Where do you want to sit?" I ask.

"Oh, I don't know!"

I start climbing. There are two aisles going on. Three seats on one side. A huge middle section. And then two seats on the far end.

"Shall we sit over there?" I suggest, already making my way over to the other end. Over here, I won't have to sit next to anyone but Allison. I'm hoping that will help with the whole crowding thing.

The seats fill up.

I think we're going to get way past sixty-two percent.

Someone comes out. The director. We're starting out the evening with some piano.

Oh dear.

This does not bode well for my lungs.

Four hands, two pianists, one piano.

It sounds like the beginning of some dodgy YouTube video.

One of the pianists steps forward. Mark Stringer. Who from the looks of the freesheet actually composed the piece too. "As you can tell, I've lost my voice," he says in a quite rasp.

Allison looks round and nudges me. "Like you!" she whispers.

Yeah, like me.

"The producer said 'at least you're not singing tonight!'" Stringer goes on, and we all giggle along with him.

He takes his seat.

The page turner slides forward on hers.

They're ready.

I force a quick cough, hoping that will see me through, but as the four hands hit the one piano, I can tell it's going to be a tough evening.

I look around.

There's only one exit, and that's on the other side. There's no way I can escape without crossing the stage.

Shit.

It's fine.

It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.

I've got my cough sweet. That'll last a good fifteen minutes. The freesheet said this bit of the evening was only half-an-hour long. Fifteen minutes with a cough sweet. And a bottle of water to take me through the rest. I can do that.

I can do that...

I can...

Nope. Nope. I can't.

I'm already coughing.

I bury my face in my scarf, hoping to smoother what noise I can, but Allison sympathetic hand on my shoulder is telling me that I'm not doing a very good job of it.

I reach into my bag and pull out my water bottle, chugging a good half of it before the cough subsides once more.

There. I made it. That wasn't so bad.

And someone else just coughed too. Someone sitting in the back. It's just that time of year, isn't it.

It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.

Except it's not fine and a few minutes later it's starting again.

I dig my nails into the back of my hand, hoping the pain will distract my from the desperation of my lungs.

I doesn't.

I jerk in my seat as my body fights against me, desperate to cough.

My stomach muscles clench. My ribs contract. My face grows hot.

I can't keep it in any more.

I cough.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Loud and deep and rasping.

I sound like I'm dying.

Allison clutches at her neck, clearly horrified at what is happening next to her.

I try to sip water, but it only takes the edge off. Putting off the next bout for a few short minutes.

Over onstage, the page turner looks over at me, giving my the filthiest look I've ever received in my life..

I keep chugging water.

At last, the music comes to a halt and Springer stands up. "That was the end of the first piece," he tells us.

The audience dutifully applauds and I use the time to get out as many coughs as I can.

"The next one has three movements," he goes on. "Like this one, as you may have noticed."

Three movements.

Okay.

I can do that.

I take off the lid of my water bottle. There's no time to be dealing with that now. That's precious seconds wasted between me and hydration right there.

I sip slowly and constantly as the pianists jump back into action with a fast and jaunty piece.

The page turner removes a section of pages and sets it to one side. That's the first movement done.

I hold my entire body taught, every muscle clenched, tiny expulsions escaping from between my pursed lips.

The page turner sets aside another section.

Allison looks over to me and holds up a single finger.

One movement left.

I'm holding my stomach so rigid I'm almost bent over. I'm getting a killer core workout over here. Pity I won't live long enough to appreciate it.

And then it's over.

I curl over, the fit taking hold.

The lady sitting in front of my turns around. I want to apologise to her but I can't talk.

"Shall we go fill up your water bottle?" asks Allison.

I nod. I've drained the poor thing dry.

We go back out into the bar.

There's a table with big glass bottles of water on it.

"Sorry, excuse me," I say to two people standing right in the way. As I refill my bottle I realise the person I just asked to move is the director.

Oh dear.

He can't be very happy with me.

Allison finds an empty table for us.

Still unable to form words, I pull out a Crosstown bag and offer her a doughnut. Strawberry and champagne for her. Spiced pumpkin for me. I instantly feel better.

"It's just men's voices," says Allison, as we enjoy our carb-fest.

She's reading the freesheet.

"Hopefully loud ones," I say, taking a break from my doughnut to cough again. My voice is so raspy now I can barely understand myself.

Conversation out, I settle for reading the freesheet. All of the freesheet. Even the line of thanks.

"Is that...?" I say pointing at a name. "Isn't she a ballerina?"

We both look at the name.

"I don't know..." says Allison.

I get out my phone and google it.

Yup. A ballerina. A Canadian one. Which pleases Allison, who is also one of that tribe.

A bell rings. It's time to go back in.

Forks scrap against plates as the audience members who ordered proper hearty meals for the interval try to finish up.

We go back to our seats.

I ready the water bottle in my lap. Lid off.

The piano has been moved over to the side, and there's the page turner ready to do her bit.

I duck down a little in my chair, hoping she can't see me.

The cast comes out.

Army of Lovers, here we go.

The opera, for four voices, is about an army. Of lovers.

Does what it says on the tin, really. Everyone is coupled off. Which makes them unbeatable. Except of course one bloke has to be difficult and is refusing to get himself a boyfriend. So then they lose.

Sucks.

"You didn't cough!" says Allison as we start to applaud.

"I know!" I say proudly. Or at least try to say, because my voice has entirely gone now. "I tried really hard."

"Thirty-five minutes, you deserve applause."

I do. I really do.

We escape back out into the night air, and I let Allison lead the way. I've got a lot of coughing I need to catch up on.

"I didn't come this way," I say, suddenly noticing that we are now investigating the wrong side of an underpass. "Where are you taking me?”

"It's really dodgy," says Allison. "At least there's two of us. Two women are safer than one."

"I'll protect you," I say, striking a fighting pose before dissolving into another coughing fit.

A man walks past, and gives me a look of disgust.

Well, I never said how I'd protecting her. Being a walking plague is certainly effective.

We turn a corner. And there it is again. Grenfell.

"Christ," I say, somehow caught unawares by it again.

We both stop to look at it.

"It's awful," says Allison after a long moment.

Yeah...

Let's leave it there before I end up saying something trite.

Does an angel contemplate my fate

Turns out, even puppet theatres obey my law of creepy locations.

I've told you about this before. The more dark and dangerous an alleyway, industrial estate, canal, or whatever other deserted and foreboding place you can think of, the more likely it is to contain a fringe theatre. And will you look at this right here. The Little Angel Theatre is tucked away down the bottom of a very dark and shadow-filled Dagmar Passage. And yeah, there might be Georgian buildings with lovely sash windows hugging it along both sides, and I might be walking across wide flagstones, but that's because we're in Islington. It doesn't change the fact that I am definitely about to be murdered. I mean, let's be real, sash windows and wide flagstones didn't put Jack the Ripper off now, did it?

I make it through though, and am not actually murdered. Which is good. I suppose.

The alley opens up into a wide square, with more smart Georgian houses and their sash windows. And off to one side, looking for all the world like a village church hall, is the Little Angel Theatre.

I've already been to their studios just a little down the road, and now it's time to check out the mothership. They finally, finally, have a show for grown ups. Which is a relief. Means I don't have to spend my evening surrounded by a bunch of six year olds that I'm not related to. I'm sure they are pretty stoked about not having to spend their evening with a mardy old lady.

Yeah, as if you couldn't tell, I'm not in the best of moods right now.

I'm ill.

Again.

Barely got over the last grot-fest before succumbing to this one.

What with starting my new job and all, it's no surprise that I'm a bit run down. But still. It would have been nice if I could have got a bit of a breather. A few weeks to recover. Catch up on the blog and all that. I'm already running two weeks behind. At this rate, I won't get this published until March.

Oh well, best crack on.

I go inside.

And stop.

I can't move.

It is absolutely packed in here.

I can see the box office counter just off to one side, but there's no way I can get anywhere close to it.

People are just standing arond. Some of them over by the bar, slightly futher in. A few, like me, trying to pick up their tickets.

But mostly, they're just chatting. Standing and nattering. Loudly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," calls out a front of houser over the din. "This is your five minute warning. The show will be beginning. Please take your seats."

I brace myself for the surge of people that will be pouring in my direction, but if this lot have heard the nice lady's warning, they have no intention of actually listening to it.

The chatter continues.

Great.

Looks like I'm going to have to dive head on into this mess.

I pushed forward, knocking elbows and bags as I squeeze myself forward towards the box office.

I find myself standing behind someone for a full two minutes before I realise he's already got his tickets and is just standing there for his own personal reasons.

I side-step him, avoiding any nearby toes as much as I can, and push myself into the sole scrap of empty space nearby. Which is thankfully located right in front of the box office.

"Hi!" I say, fighting to draw out what is left of my voice. "The surname's Smiles?"

"Yup!" says the box officer, looking down at her lists. There are three of them. Two handwritten. One printed. She finds me on the printed list and marks off my name. Looks like muggins here was one of the few people who actually paid to be here tonight.

I thought that was it. I was dismissed. But nope. The box officer starts picking up a pile of printed tickets and looks through them until she finds the one that belongs to me.

Gosh. I was not expecting that. It was all laminated admission passes at their studio. Things are done on a different level in the theatre.

I look around.

People still aren't moving.

Seems like it's down to me to set the example and show this lot how it's done.

I aim myself at the door to the theatre and go for it full force, almost falling out of the crowd on the other side.

"We're totally full tonight," says the ticket checker, trying not to look shocked at my dramatic appearance. "You can sit where ever you like, so please squash up."

A full house.

Oh dear.

One thing my cough does not like, is feeling crowded.

Well, not much I can do about that now.

I go in.

And gosh, it's all rather pretty in here. Reminds me of Jackson's Lane. Sort of.

The bare brick walls are painted a deep shade of green. The ceiling is vaulted with wooden beams and dotted with paper lanterns. There's bunting. Long wooden benches are covered in patchworked cushions.

It's charming as fuck.

I spot an empty bench near the back and head straight to it, tucking myself up at the far end.

As I sit down, my arm grazes against something hard, warm, and very knobbly.

I appear to have picked a radiator to be my neighbour.

I set about preparing myself for a warm evening. Jacket: off. Cardigan: off. Sleeves: rolled up.

There, that should do it.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the show will begin in a few minutes. So please take your seats. Thank you."

That got them.

People are coming in now.

"Can we move up?" asks a woman settling herself in my row.

"Yeah... sorry. There's a radiator," I say, making a show of touching it with my fingertips and instantly regretting it. "Sorry. I'll burn myself. It's really hot."

Besides that, I'm right on the end of the bench. There's no where for me to go.

The front of houser comes in and starts chivying us all to move down.

"But the radiator," says the woman in my row, gesturing over to me.

The front of houser retreats.

"The wanted us to make room for two people," says the woman turning to me with a look a horror.

I give an equally horrified look back. These benches aren't that long. And there are already four of us in here. One more, fine. But two... well, that's too much.

All suitably squeezed in, the front of houser stomps down to the front of the auditorium. There's some housekeeping rules she needs to tell us. Phones on silent, of course. The running time is one hour and fifteen minutes, but that does include an interval. "I think I said this to each of you on the way in," she goes on. "But if you have a wine glass, keep hold of them! The floor is raked so if you put the down, they will topple over and disturb the show."

"What was that about the floor?" whispers a man in my row.

"It's raked," says the horrified woman. "That means it has a slope to it." She demonstrates the slopped nature of the floor with a skiing hard gesture.

And that's it. We're ready to begin.

Can't remember what we're seeing, to be honest. I didn't get a freesheet.

I look around, sitting up tall in my seat to aid with my quest. Yeah, no one else has one either.

I rummage around in my bag and pull out the ticket. Roll Over Atlantic. That's the name of the show.

I wonder if it has puppets.

I hope it has puppets.

We are in a puppet theatre after all.

A man comes out.

He doesn't have any puppets.

He does have a rather wonderful Christopher Columbus costume though,

I know it's Christopher Columbus because he tells us it is.

"You can boo!" he tells us as we all dutifully clap at this announcement.

A few people attempt a panto-boo.

And so it goes on. Ole Columbo takes us with him on his adventures, in what feels like a low-budget Horrible Histories episode, despite this being, apparently, a show for adults.

A few scenes in, and Columbus isn't the only one in trouble. My cough is starting up again. The packed benches. The radiator. My lungs are not happy.

I reach down into my bag and grab my water bottle, chucking down as much as I can. It's not helping.

I try to time my coughs for the applause. For the loud bits. For anything that will help cover this atrocious hacking cough. But there aren't enough of them.

One man talking is not enough to compete with the mighty sound of my cough.

I shift on my bench, trying to get comfortable. But the backs are so low I can't even lean back without falling into a void.

It's no good. I have to get out of here.

Not now.

There is no way I'm escaping from this bench.

Just got to hold off until the interval. It can't be long. The entire show is barely more than an hour.

Columbus disappears behind the back curtain. I hold myself tight, willing him not to return, But nope, there he is again, popping out from the other side.

He waves his arms about, trying to encouage us to join in. "Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!" he says, for reasons that I can't work out because I'm too busy cough-cough-coughing.

He ducks behind the curtain once more and the theatre gods take pity on my, raising the house lights.

I lean forward and make a grab for my scarf and jacket.

"Do you want to get out?" asks the woman in my row, readying herself to stand up. "Cool off?"

"Yeah..." I say, winding the scarf around my neck and hefting up my bag. "I don't think a cough quite goes with this show. I think I'm going to make my escape."

"Awww," she says, sounding genuinely sorry for me. "Get well."

I slip out the row, stopping in the foyer just long enough to pull on my jacket and snap a photo of the box office, before escaping into the night.

There, in the freezing solitude of the square, I cough and cough and cough until my stomach aches and my throat is raw.

And then I begin the slow walk back to the tube station.

Tower of Scrabble

For some reason, I've managed to convince myself that I could get to Stoke Newington in an hour.

Yeah, yeah. No need to laugh. I get it. Stoke Newington may have an Overground station, but it might as well be in the middle of nowhere. It's a frickin’ transport deadzone.

And yet, somehow, I'm here. With a whole four minutes to spare before my show starts.

Shit. I'm going to have to run.

I hate running.

Fuck. Off I go.

"Excuse me," says a homeless woman as I slow down to check directions on my phone.

"I'm so sorry..." I say as I speed up once more. Two minutes to go.

Round the corner. It's somewhere down this road. It's so dark I can barely make out the signs. I really should have researched what this place looked like before I left. Is that it? If I needed to guess which building could be the Tower Theatre I probably would go fo the one with huge church-like windows and a gothic-ached portico over the entrance.

No time to wait for the traffic to stop. I dive across the road trusting in the theatre gods that the cars will slow down to let me pass. They do.

Not letting myself stop, I hop up the steps, though the little entranceway, and through the door. There's a bar through here. A rather nice bar. And more importantly, it has people in it. Queuing. That means the show hasn't started yet.

I puff my way over to the box office, clutching at my side as I attempt to get in enough air to say: "The surname's Smiles?" through the window.

The woman behind the counter very sweetly pretends not to notice my beetroot coloured cheeks. "That's just about right," she says, finding me on the list.

She reaches through the window and hands me something. An admission pass. A rather swish admission pass. No laminated bits of card here. Oh no. This is heavy plastic, the size of a credit card, and printed with the Tower Theatre logo. "You're just round there," she says, pointing in the direction of the bar.

I thanks her before going to find a quiet spot to take photos of the pass quickly before someone takes it off me.

A bell rings. "Two minute bell for upstairs for the theatre," calls a voice. "Two minute bell."

"Can you...?" another frobt of houser asks them.

"Sorry. I can't leave my place by the door."

Too right. I need someone to check my admission pass.

I squeeze through the small group still intent on getting their drinks' order in no matter what bells are rining, and hand over my admission pass to the lady standing stoic and unmoving on the door.

Through the door, and I find myself in a stairwell. I start climbing.

This must have been a church at some point. I can't see anything else so embracing the gothic style. I mean, I would, obviously, if I ever got the chance to build, or even own, property. But still, these pointed windows are intense. Even if they have been boarded up and filled in with posters.

At the top, there's another usher waiting. I don't have another pass to hand her, so after giving her a quick look over to check that she's not selling any programmes, I go in, and... gosh. This is quite some space. Pointy windows were only the start of it. The ceiling is high. Impossibly high. And vaulted. And round. Almost as if we were in a... okay. I get it. Very clever Tower Theatre. I see what you did there with the name.

My cough has made a bit of a reappearance today, so I want to make sure that I'm not sitting too close to the front. I need to quarantine myself. I've learnt the hard way that my cough gets worse when I'm feeling cramped. The tube in rush hour is a spluttering nightmare, I can tell you that for free.

I cross the stage and climb the steps, finding a run of empty seats in the third row that will suit me just fine.

The seats are well nice. Almost like the ones you get in cinemas. All wide and padded with proper armrests. Seats you can properly sink into and get comfortable. They gently curve around the stage.

If this is how Stoke Newington is doing theatre, I might have to come here more often. Even the sightlines are great. I mean, no one is sitting in front of me, so I'm not testing the Tower in extreme conditions here, but the rake looks good to me. I can see the set just fine, even from here on the side. And that's proving to be a very good thing because there's lots to enjoy in this set. From the cluttered sink on one side, to the warming stove in the corner, and the grimy windows at the back of it all.

I'm into it.

Slowly the seats fill up leaving a very obvious buffer around me. Usually I'd be offended, but tonight, I'm grateful. I don't want to be coughing on anyone. Not during a Martin McDonagh play. He's one of my favourites, after all. And I wouldn't want to offend Mr Fleabag.

A voice comes over the sound system telling us to sort out our phones. Grey heads bob all around as all the old ladies make a dive for their handbags. The voice goes on unconcerned. They have another play coming up. Rules for Living.

Yeah, glad I made it to this one. I saw Rules for Living back at the Nash and can't say it did much for me. The set up sounds much more interesting than the play ends up being.

Anyway, enough about that. We're not here for Rules for Living. We're here for The Beauty Queen of Leenane, which I am so excited for I could boak. I'm wanted to see this play for bloody years and now the light are dimming and it's about to begin and gawd it's good.

I mean, you already know that, don't you? You've seen it. Everyone has. Apart from me. It's the one play of his that everyone can name. Or at least, it's the one they bring up when trying to tell me why they didn't like Hangmen. "The Beauty Queen of Leenane though..."

Well, say what you like about McDonagh, but that man can write. And doesn't he know it. He revels in his ability to shock. I can't blame him. I would too. But there's a particular streak of cruelty in him, that makes me both fear and love him. It's worrying. But I can't help it.

A woman sitting near my nudges her companion and points to one of the cast members, sitting in a rocking chair and clutching a cushion embroidered with the message: A daughter is a gift of love. They both snigger.

I snigger too, but it soon devolves into a cough which I try to smoother with my scarf.

That's dangerous set design that is.

Just before I entirely dissolve into pure splutter, the lights are back up. It's the interval.

I stay in my seat. Not sure I can cope with the crowds at the bar. Besides, I'm comfy here. These chairs really are nice.

"I wonder if..." A woman examines the front row before hoiking her leg over an armrest and pulling herself up and over.

Without even pausing, she does it again, pulling herself into the third row. Then the fourth.

That's some exercise regime she's got there.

I look around the see how many people are in her row. It must have been packed all to hell to make her think that climbing over three rows was easy then asking them to move.

There are three people there.

That's some commitment to not wanting to bother people.

The two ladies from my row return, drinks in hand. I stand up to let them pass, but when the sit down, they move, closing the gap between us until the buffer is entirely gone. We are now sitting directly next to each other.

Just to check that their definitely is no space between us, my newly acquired neighbour knocks my arm every time she takes a sip of wine.

I pull myself tightly in, but it's no good. She's resting her elbow right on the arm rest, jabbing my every time she moves.

I can feel the tickle taking hold of my throat. I really need to cough. I bury my face into my scarf and try to get as much out as possible before the show starts again.

This is going to be a long second act.

I sink into my seat, trying to stay as quiet as possible, But it’s no good. As one, the audience gasps over the letter scene, I right along with them.

"Noooo," moans the man sitting behind me.

We cringe and sigh and despair as McDonagh pummels our hearts like the true bastard he is.

And then it's over. And it's time to go.

And I emerge onto the street, clutching onto a wall as I double up in a coughing fit, as my broken heart makes a bid for escape along with the contents of my lungs.

The absolute pits

I'm standing in the foyer of the Barbican Centre and I am stumped. Completely, and utterly, stumped.

Now, that's not an unusual feeling to be having in the Barbican Centre. This place is a warren. Turn a wrong corner and you'll find yourself being welcomed into a lost tribe of Dutch theatre-goers, unseen by the world since 1978.

There are so many levels, and half-levels, and staircases that you need to climb in order to go back down again somewhere else, I swear this place was built in order to protect London from invading hoards. Just like when road signs were taken down during the war to confuse the Nazis.

Except, even with the signs very much intact, I'm still competly, and utterly, stumped.

I can see the box office, that's in front of me. One end for the Hall. The other for the Theatre. I get that.

What I don't understand is where I'm supposed to go to pick up my ticket for The Pit. Because that's where I am going tonight. If I can figure out where the hell it is.

After much soul-searching, I decide there's only one course of action I can take. It's not a great one, but at this point, I can see no other choice. I'm going to have to ask.

"Hi," I say at the box office counter. The Hall end. "Where's the box office for The Pit?"

“Ah!" says the box officer. "That's a bit further on. You see the concrete pillar over there?”

I turn around and look where she's pointing. There is indeed a massive concrete pillar. Hard to miss. It's as big as a house.

“Go past that," she says. "Through the glass doors on the other side, across, and take the lift to minus two."

"Two floors down?" I ask, just to confirm, although I think I know where she means. Well, I know where the lifts are, anyway.

She nods.

Two floors down.

Okay then. Let's go.

I follow her directions, going around the concrete pillar, through the glass doors, across the funny underground road, and through the glass doors on the other side.

I ignore the lifts and push through the doors into the stairwell.

Because I'm a rebel, me.

Good thing the Barbican's architecture rewards such diligence. A rather grim, almost car-park like, staircase is made ethereal by the flooding in of azure blue light, bouncing off the many mirrors set up at strange and disconcerting angles.

As I reach the bottom, I find myself in the cinema bit of the Barbican. I'm never been in the cinema bit. I'm a bit useless about keeping up with films at the best of times, I ain't never been to the Barbican to see one.

I look around.

There's a desk set up near the entrance, but somehow I don't think that's what I'm after.

I keep on walking, and yup, there it is. The box office. Handily signposted with a great big "tickets" above the lozenge cut out - shaped like a smartphone with all those rounded corners and shiny walls.

"Hi!" I say, bouncing up to the counter. "The surname's Smiles?"

"Smiles!" repeats the box officer. "That's such a nice name!"

"Thanks," I say, shrugging nonchalantly, but I can't stop myself from grinning. It never gets old.

"Is that Max?" she asks, moving on swiftly from the surname fangirling.

It is Max. I get my ticket and the receipt and all that stuff and go to find somewhere to sit down.

There's a bar against the back wall. It looks well smart, back-lit by a set of warm yellow light-boxes. No one seems particularly interested in that.

I find one of the soft benches and get comfortable.

The entrance to The Pit is just opposite. It's not open yet, but I don't want to plonk myself too far away because it's unallocated seating. And I don't fancy getting stuck at the back of the queue.

"Hellooooooo," calls a woman from across the way, as she spots someone she recognises. "I got my shoes off!”

She does have her shoes off. She extends her legs out in front of her, demonstrating the lack of shoe-ness. "It's been a long day," she explains.

I'm sure.

Over by the door to the theatre, there's some movement. A general getting-readiness.

We all begin to get up. Not quickly. No one wants to start a panic. But there's a slow shift, a picking up of bags, a movement towards the doors.

I find myself standing in a very loosely defined line. Not exactly a queue. No one wants to admit they're in a queue. We all just want to be as close to the doors as possible when they open.

As the elastic ribbon of the barriers pings back, we begin our shuffle forward. Our very slow shuffle forward.

Slow enough for me to read the sign advising us that the show we're seeing has had to be rejigged due to the injury of one of the performers.

We're getting our bags checked.

Which is a first for me.

Not having my bag checked. Obviously. I've long grown used to that particular indignity.

I mean having to display the innards of said bag in queue to get our tickets checked. As if a terrorist would have his heart set on blowing up the Pit, and would turn up his nose at the foyer.

The contents of my bag is deemed acceptable, and my ticket passes muster too. So in I go. Down a short corridor, round a corner, and through another set of doors, marked up with slightly less chirpy signage that its foyer friend: The Pit Theatre.

It's dark in here. As you'd expect from a theatre named after a hole in the ground, but there the similarities end.

It's big. Okay, not Coliseum big, but that's quite a sizable stage going on over there.

One side is taken over by a wall of spotlights, all pointed directly at us as we round the bank of seating.

I climb back to my favourite row. You know the one. The third. Just far enough away that I don't feel like I'm sitting on the stage, and out of the way of all low-flying interaction.

Don't think I'm in danger of that tonight. But still. I'm here to see SUPERFAN: Nosedive. Not sure exactly what that is, but I've seen the reviews popping up and they haven't been overly great. Not that that means much. I disagree with the critics plenty. But still.

A woman comes and sits next to me. Right next to me. Leaving empty seats on either side of us.

She gets out a book, cracks it open, and starts reading.

That must be one hell of a good book.

I glance at the cover.

It's Dracula.

Ergh.

I can't be having with that.

It might be a surprise for you to find out that I'm not a SUPERFAN of the most famous vampire novel ever written, but there you go. I tried rereading a couple of years back and could not get through it again. The letter where Lucy begs Mina not to tell anyone that she had received three proposals that day, except Jonathon, because of course a wife should not keep anything from her husband, even her friends' secrets, put me right off.

When she goes on to say that she thinks men are so noble-hearted in the face of women, who are all just too silly, well... that's where me and Bram Stoker parted ways for good.

Anyway, the rest of the audience are indulging in more normal pursuits. That is: trying to capture the perfect Instagram shot of the wall of lights.

Friends lean over to one another to show each other their efforts.

All of them are better than mine.

Sorry about that.

You'll just have to accept my word for it that the lights are much more impressive than my photography skills are capable of showing off.

Oh well. Phones away.

A man is lying on the ground. On his stomach. He's struggling. Flopping about like a dying fish.
Something tells me this show is going to be weird.

A few more performers appear to watch the man's struggles. Can't tell you who they are. You may have noticed that no one has attempted to give me a freesheet. And you know the rules: no freesheet, no credits. I ain't looking up nobody on the internet.

So I can't tell you who any of these people are. Nor the identity of the two kids who come out to join in the weirdness. I guess all I have to do now is sit back and try to work out what's going on for myself.

By the end, I'm none the wiser. If there was a theme, or a narrative, it eluded me completely

Oh well.

That's the Barbican done at least.

Now... how do I get out of here?

OK Boomer

I have exactly seven minutes to get off this train, navigate my way through the station, get myself over to the theatre, pick up my ticket, and find my seat.

It's fine. It's all totally fine.

And so not my fault. How dare you.

I left a good hour ago. For a journey that Citymapper assured me could be done in thirty-eight minutes. So you see, I was being responsible. Leaving extra time. Just in case the District line was being... well, it's usual District line self.

What Citymapper failed to account for, was me getting on the Westbound train, instead of the Eastbound one which I should have got on. Because I just started a new job and I'm a little sleep-deprived at the moment and pretty much working solely on autopilot right now.

So you see: not my fault.

It's pelting it down as we pull into Richmond.

The exit to the station is clogged by crowds trying to escape the downpour.

"Oh for gawd's SAKE," I growl at a group of shoppers blocking me in and forcing me to climb over their mountain of bags.

But I'm out.

Shaking my umbrella into life with one hand and bringing up Google Maps with the other, I splash my way through the puddles, not waiting for the lights to change before crossing the road. I duck and dive between slow-moving pedestrians, and jump over a very small dog who is too busy delicately sniffing a lamppost to notice the woman in a too-short velvet dress and a grim-expression baring down on him.

Round the corner. And the next one.

Is this it?

That's a fucking fancy building over there. All red stone pillars and carvings everywhere. Definitely a Frank Matcham building if ever I saw one. There can't of been two architects like that. The whole city would have collapsed under the strain of excessive twiddly-bits.

Just time for the quickest of photos then I'm running up the stairs.

A front of housers steps out, blocking my way with a smile.

"Do you have your ticket on you?" she asks, her cheerful expression only faltering slightly at the sight of my red and puffy one.

"No, I'm collecting," I tell her.

"Just this way please," she says, pointing the way down to a sunken box office.

I trot down the steps and go over to the counter.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?" I tell one of the box officers.

He finds my ticket in the ticket box and looks at it carefully.

"We put you in the Dress Circle," he tells me.

"Great!" I say enthuasitically.

"We've closed the Upper Circle today."

Oh. Well, that's not so great. But between you and me, I was rather counting on it. When I booked my ticket, the seat plan didn't look all that full, so I took a punt and bought myself the cheapest ticket I cound find. Twelve quid. Well, sixteen and a bit once you add all of ATG's outrageous fees on top. But still, not bad for third row in the Dress Circle if you've got the nerves to play that game.

He hands me a pile of tickets. My original one, with the receipt and all that attached. And the new one. Comped through, with my name handwritten across the top.

Back into the little foyer and up towards the stairs. No time to stop off at the merch desk. Go directly to your seat. Do not investigate the existence of programmes. Do not pass go.

"Just this way please," says one of the front of housers positioned on the stairs when I show her my ticket.

She has the poshest voice I've ever heard in my life and I feel my legs processing the instruction before my head has even got a handle on them.

Up more stairs and then into the auditorium.

I have a general impression of... Edwardian exuberance. But there's no time to take any of it in. Down to row C, and an apology to the woman sitting at the end.

"I knew there'd be another one," she sniffs disapprovingly as if she'd been waiting for me to turn up.

"Sorry," I say again. "I got caught out in the rain."

I have no idea what that excuses, but it's what I had so I went with it.

I move along the row and find my seat, dumping my bag and umbrella in relief.

The man sitting near me dives forward and grabs the glass of beer I'd nearly toppled.

"Oh, sorry," I say.

"No, no. It's all me," he says.

I don't argue. It is kinda all him. We have a whole seat acting as buffer between us. There was no need for his beer glass to be sitting there.

Finally, I can sit down and catch my breath.

I look around me.

Usually when I'm in a Matcham theatre, I fall to the cliche simile of saying the place looks like a wedding cake. But ain't no-one getting a cake like this made for them unless they have HRH in their name. There isn't a single inch of wall that isn't covered in decoration.

Fat babies line up above the curtain swags to hold up garlands of flowers.

The boxes either side are topped by chubby faces sprouting wings out of their necks.

Ladies who haven't quite mastered the art of pinning their togas also demonstrate a lack of understanding as to how to play a tambourine, lifting up their arms in very elegant, almost balletic gestures, while their instrument sits uselessly at waist level.

Elsewhere, a skinny bearded man wearing a crown, stares at a woman's arse, which I'm sure is a reference to some myth or other, and not just Matcham getting overexcited.

All of this is topped by a stone plaque proclaiming "To wake the soul by tender strokes of art," which if you ask me, doesn't explain anything. What on earth is doing the stroking? Is it theatre? Or the skinny bearded man? The plaque does not say.

The lights flicker around the auditorium, and then go out.

It's starting.

It's 1947 and sadness snaps at the heels of everyone who made it through the war.

"Can you see?" a man whispers in the row behind me.

"Yes," comes the reply. "Can you see?"

"Yes, yes. I can see."

As if this exchange wasn't pointless enough, the man then leans over to the next person in their group. "Can you see?"

After a bit of back and forth, it's established that they can all see, and we can get on with the business of being stroked with art.

From what I understand, Night Watch is an adaptation of a Sarah Waters novel, so I'm sat here waiting for the gay to start and... yup. There we go.

You know, thinking about it, I haven't seen many lesbian scenes on this marathon. This might well be my first. Even when going to plays that are specifically pitched as 'gay' it's always been of the male variety. There just doesn't seem to be that much lesbian-action happening in theatre. Which is a shame.

Down my row, there's a great rumble. A snore.

I look over.

The lady who was all pissy about my turning up not-late is asleep. Hands clasped in her lap. Her head drooping forward. Snoring.

Once. Twice.

The third one is a snort so loud she wakes herself up, her head and shoulders shaking as she pulls herself back into consciousness.

Just in time for the interval.

I suppose I better go find the programmes.

I head back out to the foyer.

The merch desk is covered in piles of Waters' book. Eight pounds, according to the sign. There are also mugs, and a teddy. For reasons.

"Hi! Are there programmes?" I ask, looking down at this packed table.

"There are programmes," says the merch desker. "They're just here." From behind a stack of books, she points to a small pile of programmes. "They're four pounds."

Half the price of the original text. Honestly, when you say it like that, you realise how expensive my programme habit is.

"Brilliant!" I say, ignoring the screams coming from inside my purse. "Can I pay by card."

"Of course you can! There's a card machine just in front of you. Would you like a receipt?"

I would not.

There doesn't seem to be much else happening down here.

I go back to into the auditorium. Not many people have left. A few have made it to the back to get themselves an ice cream, but for the most part everyone is still in their seat.

My end-of-rower has got herself an icecream. I hope the sugar will keep her energy up for the second half as we are plunged back in time to 1943.

Soon enough. The snore returns.

First from the end-of-rower, and then my beer drinking neighbour.

They bat their snorts from one to the other, like a sleepy game of ping-pong.

My neighbour is the first to awake.

"Sorry, sorry," he announces to the theastre in general before slumping further into his seat.

The end-of-rower's head quivers then sinks back down into her chest.

Not sure how either of them could be sleeping. Yes, it's very warm in here. And the seats are well comfy. And it's mid-afternoon on a rainy and miserable day. But there are frickin' bombs going off on stage! Of both the literal, and emotional kind.

Good thing this lot are all a fraction too young to have served in the war. They'd have snoozed their way through every air raid.

As the applause dies, I pull on my cardie, and my jacket, and get my umbrella ready for action.

The end-of-rower has already stormed her back up the steps to the back of the Dress Circle and has fallen into conversation with one of the ushers.

"You haven't seen it?" she asks, incredulous.

The usher explains that, no, she hasn't been posted inside the auditorium during the show as yet.

"You must!" the end-of-rower goes on. "It's very good."

I mean... it's a fine story, but I'm not sure I'd be trusting this lady to provide criticism of it. If she was tenderly stroked by art, it was only to soothe her dreams.

I stop in the foyer to make some notes on my phone. Through the doors I can see the downpour and I have no desire to step out into it quite yet.

"Thank you!" calls the merch desker over to me.

Okay, I guess that's my prompt to leave.

Umbrella up, here I go.

Back to BAC

Brrr. It's freezing out here on Lavender Hill. It feels like all the winds have come raging over the Thames to come terrorise south London tonight.

I bounce around on the pavement, willing the traffic lights to change.

This is my last trip to Battersea Arts Centre of the marathon and I don't want to be late. Or freeze to death before I even get there.

Now, I know you. And I can tell that you've been counting up all my BAC trips on your fingers, and you're gearing up to lecture me about all the other venue space they've got which I haven't been to yet. But I'm going to stop you right there. Have you seen Battersea Arts Centre? I mean, obviously you have. But have you really taken note of how many rooms they got going on in that place? Hundreds. And any one of them is a potential theatre. It's impossible. You could do a year-long theatre marathon in that building alone. So, this is it. I've done the Grand Hall. That's the biggie. And the Council Chamber. And the Recreation Room. And I'm on my way to see something in the Members’ Bar. That's four theatres. And I think that's enough. The whole point of this marathon was to experience the different theatres, and I think after tonight I'll have the BAC experience down.

So yeah, don't be coming at me because I didn't go to the Porter's Room or whatever. Because, I totally tried. I've been keeping tabs on where all their shows have been for ten months now. And I haven't seen anything come up.

With relief I spot the bright lights of the BAC shining out in the darkness and I skuttle up the stone steps and through the wooden doors into the lobby.

I pause, looking around.

Last time I was here there was a desk set up against that wall for the box office, but it's empty tonight.

I pass through the next set of doors, into the main foyer, with its glorious bee-patterned mosaic floor.

It's quiet tongiht. There's a group in the corner, chatting around a table, and there's a bit of buzz going on in the bar, but otherwise, it's almost deserted.

I can see the box office though. A small desk tucked up next to that grand staircase.

"Hi!" I say, pulling off my gloves with relief. It's lovely and warm in here. "The surname's Smiles?"

The box officer opens her mouth to say something, but I get there first.

"It's for A Haunted Experience," I tell her.

"That's brilliant," she says with a nod, looking through the ticket box. I notice she's wearing a great big badge, asking me to ask her about a free drink. That's weird. "What's the first name please?"

I tell her. Should I ask her about the drink?

"Great! That's your ticket and your card receipt. The house is opening soon. You're upstairs."

I decide not to pursue the drink angle.

I don't even go to the bar. I probably should. What with it being my last trip to BAC and my last opportunity to write about it. But honestly, what I want is to to sit on one of those wooden school chairs and just... not talk to anyone for a few minutes.

It's so warm, and quiet, and cosy, I feel myself getting dozy and I have to stifle a yawn.

I know how this place works. When the house opens, the usher standing on the stairs will make an announcement and we'll all traipse up. All I have to do is settle down and wait.

Above the staircase there's a sign. It says hope.

All the lights are out.

That better not be a metaphor.

It's five to eight.

A woman sitting near me gets up and goes to talk to the usher on the stairs.

"Yeah, it hasn't opened yet," says the usher brightly. "But it's up the stairs and to the left."

The left, eh? That's exciting. I haven't been to any of the rooms on the left. Good thing I decided to pay this place one more visit.

A few minuts later, the annoucement comes.

"The house is now open for A Haunted Experience."

People emerge from every corner, and we start to make our way up the stairs, turning left, then right, and heading down to the end of the corridor.

I'm glad all this lot know where they're going, because I have no idea.

Right at the end, there's a table set up with stacks of plastic cups ready for drinks to be poured into.

And a front of houser, a pile of freesheets slung over her arms, ready to check tickets.

"Can I get one of those?" I say, indicating the freesheets.

"Sure you can," she says. She tries to pull one free, but they're all clinging together. "If I can get one loose," she laughs. She manages to peel one apart though and hands it to me.

Freesheet acquired, I go through the door. There's a ticket checker waiting on the other side. "That's grand," she says as I show mine to her. "You're in the second row. That's round the stage and up the stairs, and you're on the end there." She points at my seat, which, as it happens, is right by where we're standing.

I need to go round the long way though. There's a bit of a railing situation going on.

The seats are a single raked bank. Set within a large room displaying the kind of decayed elegance that is very chic at the moment in the world of theatre. The walls are a collage of paint jobs-past, speckled with missing plaster. Large windows have been bordered up with heavy-duty shutters involving wooden planks and metal rods. These are the kind of shutters a vampire would install in his holiday home. Not a scrap of sunlight would dare attempt to get in past those.

As the usher cheerfully guides the rest of the audience to their seat, I get comfy in mine.

Three record players line up in front of us, glowing in their individual spotlights. A black cloth has been hung up behind them.

I don't know what to make of any of it.

I'll admit I have no idea what I booked for, just the title was intriguing and the venue required.

I look at the freesheet.

There's a photocopy of a newspaper clipping. The heading is: A Pestilence. It's about the surprising number of "homosexual crimes" being brought before the assizes.

Something tells me we're not going to get a cheeky ghost story tonight.

The lights dim.

Tom Marshman appears behind the black curtain, made sheer by the lighting.

He stands with his back to us, his arms outstretched into semaphore as letters are projected onto the black cloth. The alphabet of inadequate language.

When we reach z, he steps out, all smiles and welcoming.

He's going to be using the record players. He's not an expert on them. But he wants to be. We all giggle at that.

And so it begins. Marshman setting up records as he tells us the story of a seventeen-year-old boy, on a train in 1953, who propositions an undercover policeman, and then goes on to name other homosexual men. He's not ashamed. He's almost blase about the situation.

"You may find these things morally wrong," he tells them. "But I do not."

Going off to one side, Marshman sets up a slide projector, to show us the translations of a secret language, Polari, spoken by gay men.

The young man sitting next to me reaches forward and pulls a pale pink notebook from his bag. Flicking through it to the next free page, he writes something down. "Clobber," he writes in black felt tip. "Clothes," in Polari.

Marshman sets up more records, dances around, even gives us a couple of headstands. All the while delving into what it meant to be a gay man before the Sexual Offenses Act of 1967.

By the end, the young man next to me is crying.

"Don't say I never take you to anything," he says to his date as the lights go up. His cheeks are bright red with tears. He wipes them with the back of his hands and gives us a great big sniff.

I can't blame him. That was traumatic.

But Marshman isn't done yet. He has three things to tell us. The first is that there is a trip to Wandsworth archives if anyone wants to join. The second is that he's selling pewter mugs. He holds one up for us to see and smiles sheepishly. Twenty quid and they say "you may find these things morally wrong, but I do not," on them. They're rather tasty. I wouldn't mind getting my hands on one of those.

"What's the other thing?" says Marshman, placing down the cup. "I know I had three things to tell you... ah yes!" We're to tell our friends. And if they could come on Saturday that would be great, because it's rather quiet.

That would be a shame. Marshman is one hell of an engaging performer.

Now, who can I convince to buy me a pewter mug for Christmas?

A tale of two audiences

The big revolving entrance to the Opera House is broken again. A small sign tells us to use the side door.

Two ladies go ahead of me, pausing by the shop to gaze around with wide eyes.

"Where's the Linbury?" one of them asks the solitary security guard in an otherwise deserted entrance.

"Straight up there," he says, turning towards the main foyer area.

"First visit since they've done it up," she goes on, happily.

"Oh yeah?" he replies. "It's a lot better now. You'll love it."

I hope so.

Have to admit, I'm not particularly into the front of house areas. Too big. Too open. Too noisy. But I've seen pictures of the new Linbury and it does look rather swish. Like a cross between an upmarket car show room, and a tin of Quality Street.

I don't need to stop off at the box office. I've already got my ticket. Had it posted to me. I wasn't risking being stuck with an e-ticket. And getting it posted is the one way to guarantee it now. COBO seems to be a thing of the past round these parts.

I sweep through the cafe and down the very broad stairs into the depths of the opera house.

There's some sort of private reception going on here on the little half mezzanine. I keep on going, down into the bar area.

It's busy. People sitting around balancing glasses of wine and slick-looking programmes on their tables. I want me one of those.

Not the glass of wine.

I don't like wine.

I do however like programmes.

I mean, you know this already. But I think it's always worth reiterating. I like programmes. Love them, even.

Can't seem to find them though.

There are a few front of housers dotted around, but none of them are carrying that familiar fan formation of programmes so beloved by West End ushers. They don't do that here. Not at the Opera House. Far too déclassé.

Not sure where they are though. Back in the old Linbury there was a programme desk just at the foot of the stairs, but there doesn't seem to be anything like that now.

I take a tour of the room.

Nope. Nothing.

After a full minute of standing, befuddled by this lack of programmeage, I decide to go and look at the bar. Lots of theatres sell programmes at the bar. And there it is. Right at the end. A little section dedicated to the selling of programmes.

Not that you can tell. They don't have any on display. Just a little sign stating their price.

I suppose it doesn't do to show off the merchandise, like some filthy shop. 

"Can I get a programme?" I ask the chap behind the counter.

Oh gawd.

Only been here five minutes and I'm already thinking of people as 'chaps.' This place rubs off fast.

"That's five pounds," he tells me.

"Can I pay by card?"

"Of course!"

Of course.

I stick my card in the machine and he asks me if I want a receipt. I don't. The fewer records of my ridiculous programme expenditure, the better.

"Here you go, Madam," he says, handing over the programme.

Madam... Madam!

Oh my lord... I knew I was getting old, but I hadn't realised I'd hit 'Madam' age already. 

You know, when I was young, I always vowed not to be one of those old ladies that constantly complain about their age. And yet now I'm here, being called Madam... I'm damn well rebelling. 

Cheeky young sods should learn to keep their 'Madam's to themselves.

Still reeling, I make my way over to the auditorium. My ticket says to use door 2, and yup - there's door 2.

"Hello!" I say to the ticket checker as cheerfully as I can considering I've just been Madamed.

"Hello!" she says back, beeping my ticket with her ticket beeper. "It's just this level."

This level is the top level. Because I'm way cheaper than the tickets in this place. I have to say, I’ve timed my marathon well. People always like to tell me that I must be spending a fortune on this adventure of mine, but since the price-hike at ROH, I fancy I've rather been making a saving not coming to ballet on the reg anymore.

Still, I shouldn't complain. I only paid six quid to be here. Admittedly I'm standing. In the upper circle. On the side. But still. Six quid!

I hop up the steps to the standing platform and find my number amongst the small roundels stuck to the floor.

There I am. Number forty-two. The answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything.

Perfect.

No-where to put your bag though.

I mean yes: the ground. Obviously. But the platform has a sheer drop in front of it, and nothing to lean my stuff against. One wayward kick and my bag will be lost under the row of seats in front.

I form a protective wall with my jacket and nest my bag against it. That'll have to do.

Out in the bar, a bell rings.

A couple squeezes themselves down the length of the chairs to reach the empty seats at the end. They stare at them, confused.

"Is this row A?" asks the man, looking from his ticket, to the seat numbers, then back to his ticket.

The other residents of row A confirm that yes, it's row A.

He sighs. "Well, we'll sit here and if there's a problem..."

They look around for an usher, but there's none to be had. If any are posted inside the auditorium, they aren't hanging out in the Upper Circle.

The couple's neighbour gets out her phone and brings up the e-ticket, determined to work it out.

"Are you meant to be in the Upper Circle?" she asks, doubtfully.

Turns out they're not. "My mistake," he laughs. "As usual." They squeeze themselves back down the row, saying sorry for every bumped knee as they make their escape down to the superior seats of the Circle.

I brace myself for the barrage of standers, who always slip in as the lights go down, but nope. There's only three of us on this entire row.

Over the sound system comes a warning that there will be a pause between the first two pieces. And as the lights dim, it's my turn to slip down right to the end, where I can get the best possible view.

It's no good though.

Even from here I can barely see half the stage.

I lean forward, bracing my arms against the railing, resting my head against the pillar, and letting my heel slip down off the edge of the step.

From this very uncomfortable position, I manage to carve our an extra metre or two of the stage for me to see. 

But it's of little help, as the first piece, The Kingdom of Back, starts, I'm left baffled. There's some great wig action going on. And some definite tension. But whether this tale of Mozart and his sister is pure narrative or merely a hook to hand some abstract moves on, I cannot tell.

At the other end of the platform, one of my fellow standers ducks under the railing and climbs out onto the edge of the balcony, perching himself on the corner.

Fucking hell, that looks dangerous.

I'll admit, I don't know anything about theatre design, but something tells me that if audiences are having to resort to parkour in order to see anything, then neither the people who were actually paid to come up with this arrangement don't know much either.

A front of houser appears, placing a latecomer into an empty seat, detached from the rest of the row.

I hope she doesn't see our friend Tarzan.

He's still out there, hanging over the edge.

The front of houser retreats with a whispered message that the latecomer can move to her proper seat in the pause.

The Mozart piece ends and we all applaud. I join in. I have no idea if it was good or not, but I do like the Northern Ballet dancers, so I'm sure they gave it their mostest.

The front of houser reappears.

"Perhaps you'd like to go to your seat now?" she asks the latecomer in the naughty chair. "You have two minutes."

The latecomer indicates that she is quite happy where she is.

"Don't worry," says the front of houser. "Stay to the interval."

So she does, sticking resolute in her front row seat as we sail into the second piece. Mamela... With the ellipsis. So you know it's modern. That's the only way I can tell. Six whole dancers and I spend most of my time staring at an empty stage.

I try to remember if it was ever so bad in the old Linbury, and I don't think it was. As my view empties once more of anything to look at, I try to work out why that is.

It doesn't take me long.

The old standing areas didn't have seats in front of them. You were right up against the edge, not pushed back against the wall. Turns out, that makes a hella lot of difference.

You don't expect sightlines to get worse after a redesign, but here we are. I'm almost impressed. Those architects worked hard to make sure the povvo's couldn't see anything.

The music's not bad though. Very Max Richter. So Max Richter that as soon as the interval hits I have to get out the programme to check that it's isn't his work. Nope. The next piece is. But not this one. It's Jack Edmonds. Who apparently writes the most Max Richter non-Max Richter music ever. Huh.

"Hello," says a voice from the foyer, where the front of houser is now standing guard at the door. "Where can I get a programme?"

"The far end there," says the usher.

Turns out I'm not the only one who was having trouble.

Tarzan ducks back under the railing and returns to the safety of the standing platform, much to my relief.

The last work of the evening now. The Shape of Sound. To Max Richter's Four Seasons. A piece of music I never get tired of. Which is a good thing, because it is much beloved by choreographers. I would tell you have many dance works I've seen set to this music, but I lost count after five. That Richter chap must be rolling in all those royalties.

A bar of light sits across the back of the stage and the dancers wiggle their legs over it like can-can dancers.

This gets a gasp from the audience down in the stalls. A gasp which stops dead at the circles. Which makes me think there's some visual effect getting hidden to those based up here. A few more intakes of breath punctuate the music as Winter comes to an end and I kinda wish I'd invested in a better seat. But... eh.

I'm glad I've seen the worst that the Linbury has to offer. Six pounds a ticket to see half a show. Not entirely sure it was worth it.

Nuestra casa es mi casa

"Can I check your bag?" asks the bag checker as I struggle with my umbrella outside the doors to The Other Palace.

I shove the wet umbrella under my arm and open the bag for him.

For once, it's not bursting to the brim with spare shoes and the results of various shopping trips. I'm almost not embarrased to have someone looking inside. Until I spot the constellation of cough sweet wrappers floating on wave of the general mess going on in there.

Oh well.

The cough sweet wrappers don't seem to bother him, and he waves me inside.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the house is now open for Reputation," says a disembodied voice.

Gosh. That was good timing. No hanging around here tonight.

I make my way over to the small podium that serves as the box office.

Yup. I actually invested my coin in getting a proper paper ticket this time around. I may have baulked at the fee for receiving such an honour when I was here for the main house, but as it's my final trip to this place, I figured I should see what one pound fifty actually buys me.

A queue forms for the stairwell down to the studio, and the box officer steps back from her podium in order to check tickets.

I wait, ready to launch myself into any gap in the line, but if anything, it keeps growing.

I stand there, awkwardly, wondering what I should do.

"No rush!" calls out a front of houser. "Plenty of seats for everyone."

That immediately sends me into a fit of anxiety. I can see full well that it's not going to be an empty house down there. And while I don't mind sitting at the back for my marathon trips, I don't like be slotted into random empty spaces at the last moment.

"They'll scan your tickets downstairs, so don't put them away!" continues the front of houser.

That's all very well, but I still haven't got mine.

As a group arrives, with a ream of tickets so long it reaches the floor, I take my chance and step in.

"I'm collecting?" I say.

The box officer turns to me for the first time. "For Reputation?"

"Yes. The surname's Smiles."

"Yeah! I saw that!"

A give a humble shrug, playing the celebrity that just got recognised while doing her weekly shop.

"Do you know the postcode?" she goes on.

I do.

"Lovely. There you go," she says handing me the ticket.

It's nice enough, I guess. White with a black border, like Victorian mourning stationery. There's The Other Palace logo in the corner and on the tab. And a stern warning that patrons with standing tickets will be required to be on their feet for the duration.

I do not have a standing ticket, so I'm not required to do shit.

I turn around and join the back of the queue, flashing my ticket to the box officer when I pass her. She nods, without the tiniest hint of recognition in her features to demonstrate that we talked all of ten seconds ago. I get it. You got to play it cool and let celebs get on with their daily lives.

Down the stairs I go. There are a lot of them. Every time we turn a corner more of them appear. The walls are lined with black and white photos of glamorous looking people.

But we finally make it to the bottom, and there's the promised ticket checker, waiting on the door.

"Head to the left, please," she intructs.

Inside there's a smart bar. And right in front of it, rows of seating.

Ah. I see what they're going for here. A kind of cabaret space.

I keep heading left, not sure how far left I'm supposed to go.

I pass a corner settee, all set up with tables and reserved signs.

"Mummmm," cries a small child crawling over the sofa. "I can't believe you got the worst view in here.... I can't believe.... Mummmmm. You got the worst seats. I can't believe! Mum!"

I don't know what he's on about. They look pretty darn cosy to me. Much better than the tight-packed rows of chairs.

Past the comfy corner there's another set of chairs. And an empty aisle seat. I hurry over to it.

"Is this free?" I ask the next person in the row.

"Yes, there's one left," she says. I pause. What a strange way to word it. As if she has claimed the row, and now has a spare chair she doesn't mind getting rid of.

An old man sitting in the row behind grabs the back of the chair and starts inching it away from its neighbours.

"I don't know why they put them so close. There's plenty of space," he grumbles as he, quite literally, rearranges the furniture.

I sit down before he can shift me any further along, but that doesn't stop him faffing.

"I'm just going to pull my chair back," he announces. "No one's behind me yet."

What may happen when someone does arrive does not appear to bother him.

A bloke comes along and starts closing up the vents in the ceiling above us. Halfway through he stops and spots the moved chairs.

"Sorry," he says. "I have a minimum area I have to keep clear." He starts to move the chairs back to where they were, to an accompaniment of grumbling from those sitting in them.

One old lady insists she cannot see. He tells her she's free to move. But the chair needs to stay where it is.

She grumbles a bit more.

More people arrive. It's really full now. They look at the reserved signs sitting on a couple of chairs. They pick them up and move them, before turning around in their seats to greet the people sitting behind them.

Oh yes. I'm at one of those shows. Where everyone knows everyone, and they are all connected with someone in the show.

No wonder they feel they have the right to treat this place like their living room.

A man with a silk scarf looped around his neck steps forward, holding a mobile phone aloft. He turns in a slow circle before going back to his seat.

I'm not quite sure what to make of that. Did he, like, find a mobile in the toilets or something? Is this how they do lost and found at The Other Palace? I'm baffled.

A few minutes later he's back, doing the rounds, chatting to all the old dears who are "very excited, so very excited," about the show.

Something tells me he's the composer.

Eventually he gets his fill of attention and we can get on with the show.

We're in some sort of girls' finishing school, and all the students are super excited because one of their number has just finished writing their novel. Which, if you ask me, shows a distinct lack of understanding about girls' schools, or writers' friends, but there you go. She's written a book about a mafia boss, and yet we are still asked to believe that she is naive enough to send in her novel, with a twenty-dollar fee I might add, to some rando guy who advertised in Variety.

Obviously he steals her story, because that's a thing that totally happens in real life, and cross-continental hijinks ensue.

It's the interval.

"I love it," coos an old lady as the suspected-composer returns on his rounds. "I love it. I love it."

"It needs to be in a bigger venue," she goes on after he's left. "It needs a big stage."

That's not a criticism that would ever have occurred to me. I mean... Wicked needs a big stage. Les Mis needs a big stage. A story about a bunch of boarding school girls does not strike me as needing a big stage. Unless she means it needs more room for the pillow fights.

The moving-chair man is back. This time he wants to finish closing those vents. He bashes against my knees as he squeezes himself into my row, and leans right over me as he thwacks at the vents with his rolled-up programme.

I cringe at the way he's treating that poor booklet. No programme has ever deserved such punishment.

By the sounds of it, the back row has been having a very good time at the bar. They're giggling and laughing and chatting, and have no intention of stopping even when the lights go down for act two. They whisper and snort their way through each song, only stopping when one of their phones goes off.

"Sorry!" the owner of the misbehaving phone announces loudly to the room in general.

A few numbers later, when another phone goes off, it's allowed to ring and ring and ring.

We all twist around in our chairs, trying to find the source, but no-one’s owning up.

Up on stage, the girl wins an Oscar and everyone congratulates her for winning her case and no one rolls their eyes at her being such a damn fool. Not even once. Which is nice. I guess.

Anyway, it's over now.

I make a break for it, racing up those stairs before someone tries to move them.

Is there anyone out there?

I'm in Kingston for my second show of the day. There's the Rose Theatre up ahead. After my long trek from Bromley, I'm looking forward to a bit of a sit down. Might even buy myself a cup of tea.

I stand on the opposite corner and get my phone out to take a picture of the outside. Bit of an odd angle this, but never mind.

At least there aren't too many people walking around.

There aren't many people at all.

I lower my phone and peer at the building.

It looks deserted.

I follow the road around the building and look through the windows.

The cafe, which had been packed full on my trip here last week, is now entirely empty. The shutters on the counter are down. It's closed.

That's... odd.

You'd think on a Saturday night they'd be doing a roaring trade. All those pre-show glasses of wine won't drink themselves after all.

Unless, of course, it's not pre-show.

Oh gawd.

I get out my phone and after a few stress-filled seconds, find the confirmation email. No, there is it. Out Of The Dark on Saturday 02 November 2019 at 20:00 in Rose Studio.

20:00.

8pm.

Shit.

What time is it?

Not even half past seven.

I'm far too early.

Double shit.

Okay then. No need to panic. Better to be early than late. At least that gives me time to explore the delights of Kingston.

I turn around and walk back to the centre. I could buy myself that cup of tea. Scrap that, I could buy myself a hot chocolate. Yeah. I'm going to give me an upgrade on this miserable day.

Trouble is, everything is closed. The people of Kingston have all gone home. Every cafe I pass is busy stacking up their chairs. Aproned baristas carry out large bags of rubbish and pile them up on the pavement. Shutters are being lowered all around me.

I walk through a silent arcade, marvelling how dead things can get so early in the evening.

I forgot what it was like living in the countryside.

Okay, I kid. You know I grew up in the proper countryside. The type of countryside where you have to walk a half mile just to reach a payphone, and there's only one bus a week.

But also... not really.

Even the Costa in Finchley manages to eek it out until 8pm, and that's in zone bloody four.

What zone is Kingston in?

Six.

There you go. The bloody countryside.

I keep on walking, looping around and weaving back and forth through the streets.

Eventually, on my third rotation, I figure that I've killed enough time and make my way back to the theatre.

There are people here now. Queuing at the box office.

"Have you got any cash? Two pounds?" asks a woman.

"Yeah," comes the reply. "Don't worry, I won't make you pay for me."

"Same again?" asks the box officer as the next person takes their turn.

I'm beginning to think these people must be members of some kind of audience club.

Oh well. I paid full price to be here. So that's okay.

As I reach the front of the queue, the box office is busy filling out some paperwork.

It takes him a minute to see me. I occupy myself by looking around and trying to warm up my hands.

"Oh, sorry!" he says as he spots me waiting.

"Don't worry," I tell him, still rubbing life back into my fingers. "It's nice just to be out of the cold. The surname's Smiles?"

He finds the ticket.

"What's the postcode?" he asks.

I tell him.

"That's the one!" he says cheerfully. It must be on my record that postcodes are a bit of a challenge for me.

There's no show in the main house. Not tonight. The Lovely Bones has closed.

A sign tells us that the Rose Cafe is closed.

Bummer.

Another sign indicates that the Circle Bar is open. Not really what I was after, but okay...

A front of houser smiles at me.

"Is the Circle Bar up here?" I ask, pointing to the nearest staircase.

"Up the stairs and the bar is open," she says, pointing in the complete opposite direction. Towards the cafe.

There isn't a sadder sight in all the world than a closed cafe. Okay, I mean, caged animals and starving children, sure. But apart from that: there isn't a sadder sight in all the world than a closed cafe.

At least they haven't stacked the chairs.

I walk around the dramatic staircase that takes up the central point of this space and go up.

There's a lot of people here. Turns out there really isn't anywhere else to go in Kingston tonight.

I look around and spot the loos. Ah. I should probably see what's happening in there. For investigative purposes. And not at all because the loos in Bromley were grim and I kinda need to pee quite badly now.

I go through the door just to the side of the bar, down a long corridor, and find them.

They're nice enough. Clean. Whatever. Don't really have anything further to say.

Back in the bar, and it is a proper bar. A little tray of citrus sits out alongside a procession of different sized measures.

Somehow I don't think asking for a hot chocolate would go down all that well.

Over by the windows is something far more interesting. A water station. Two jugs. A stack of cups. Perfect.

I go over and pour myself a glass, taking it over to the little ledge that surrounds the staircase and claiming a spot.

This is a great vantage point. I can see all the people walking over from the box office, inspecting their long reams of tickets as they head for the stairs.

I can also keep an eye on the entrance to the studio.

The door bangs open and someone comes out to give the nod.

"Good evening," comes a voice over the tannoy. "Welcome to the Rose Theatre. The Studio is now open for this performance of Out Of The Dark. The Studio is now open. You can now take your seats."

We all slowly stir, and make out way round the mezzanine, lining up to go inside.

As we inch our way forward, I spot something on the ledge. A pile of freesheets. At least I think they're freesheets. They have the show artwork on them, so they might just be really lousy flyers.

Not sure if they're up for the taking.

I grab one all the same and folding it up, stuff it safely into my bag before slipping into the auditorium.

You know, you can never guess what you're going to get with studio theatres. Main houses tend to look the same. Oh sure, some might be fancier than others. Some have all that Edwardian splendour and others are all stripped back wood and steel. But for the most part, they follow a general design. Studios however, are all over the fucking place.

Some of them are proper little theatres, just miniaturised. Just this afternoon, I was in one which was really, when it came down to it, a well-lit storage room.

This one is a school gymnasium.

Breeze-block walls. Floor level stage. And a block of seating, which, let's be real, is just bleachers with cushioning.

I go over to the far end, and set up just in front of the tech desk which has taken up residence on the end of the back row.

We're got those double-wide flip down seats that they also have in the main house, but it doesn't look like I'll have to share. Most people are choosing to sit further forward. Some so far forward that they're actually in a row of chairs either side of the stage. Rows that are raised on short little platforms. Not sure why. It's not like anyone is sitting in front of them. It does add a certain regalness to their position though.

A couple of ushers are whispering to each other.

"They're on the bar," one says.

The other goes off, returning a few seconds later with the freesheets.

"Would anyone like a free programme?" he calls out, holding up the pile so that we can see. And yup, that's the pile I pilfered from earlier. "Free programme, anyone?"

He walks along the seats, handing them out to anyone who raises their hand.

More people are coming in. They try to sit in the front row, but the usher on that side isn't having it. "We're trying to save these seats," she tells them. "For latecomers. Otherwise we'll desturb you."

They meekly go and sit further back.

Another tannoy message plays. This one inside the auditorium. A reminder to turn off our phones.

And then the lights are dimming and it's time to begin.

Two cast members. A couple. They're having a baby.

They speak in stilted sentences. Repeating themselves and each other, forming patterns with their words.

It feels awkward at first, and hard to grasp onto. But I soon settle into the rhythm and am swept away on the tidal wave of the characters’ desperation.

We're very quiet on the way out.

Groups form on the mezzanine and long held breaths are let out in puffing sighs.

"Oof."

I slip down the stairs and down the corridor.

"Goodnight!" I say as cheerfully as I can, wrapping my arms around myself to keep away the chill, and the heartache.

Oof.

Musical Chairs

A teenage boy leans out the train doors. He looks both ways and then desides to make a break for it, leaping out onto the platform and sprinting down to the next carriage.

Behind him, the doors beep and begin to close.

He turns around, his features twisting into a grimace of horror. "Noooo," he shouts, turning back just as the doors close in his face.

We're off.

To Bromley.

Again.

A couple of weeks ago, I didn't even know the Churchill Theatre existed and now I'm spending my Saturday afternoon squashed onto a train to go see a show there.

That's worrisome.

Not that I'm on a train, although, that has its own set of concerns. More that I could go through an entire ten months of theatre-hunting, and still manage to discover new places I need to visit.

And it's not like I even found it on a listing site or in a review or anything like that. I literally saw it. With my eyes. As I was walking though Bromley the last time I was here. That's seriously scary. I can't be spending the next two months walking around the streets of London. It's cold!

The wind is screaming down the streets. Trains are being delayed and cancelled all over the place.

It's amazing I even got here.

I pause in the middle of the shopping district and look up. The Churchill Theatre looks a good deal larger in the daylight. It fairly looms over all the shops below.

It's also covered in scaffolding. They must be doing some serious work to it at the moment.

I follow the signs, through a little alleyway and out into a wide courtyard.

The posters are out for this Christmas' panto: Aladdin.

That's not what I've here to see though. Thank goodness. I'm already booked into an alarming number of them. More pantos then I've seen in my entire life. Or could possibly want to.

I go in.

It's a big theatre.

Like, there's a dedicated merch desk going on here, and signs pointing out a restaurant.

How this place managed to escape my radar for ten whole fucking months... what are they doing here? They must be blowing all their marketing budget advertising on... I don't know... the back of health food packets... for me not to have come across this place before.

"Hi!" says the lady on the door. "Can I see your tickets please."

"I'm picking up?" I say.

"Just join the queue over there," she says, pointing over at the curved box office counter.

I do.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

There are two box officers, but both of them are busy. Selling tickets.

After a few minutes, the lady from the door comes over.

"Are you collecting for a current show?" she asks.

Well, yes. It's 2pm on a Saturday afternoon. I ain't here for panto tickets. I don't say that though. "Yes, the matinee," I tell her.

"What's the name?"

"Smiles."

She goes over to the counter and has a look through the few remaining tickets lined up and waiting to be collected.

"Hmmm," she says. "I can't see you there. So you'll have to wait anyway."

One of the box officers puts down her phone.

"This lady is collecting for the matinee?" says the door lady.

"Which one?"

That's a good question. I bring up my confirmation email. "Understanding Susan?" I say.

The box officer taps an a ticket box. "That's this box here," she says.

The door lady makes a grab for it. "What's the surname again?" she asks.

"Smiles."

"Yes, that's in there," says the box office lady.

"Unforgettable, that's me," I say, half to myself.

My ticket is found, and handed over.

"Where am I going?" I ask.

My show is in the studio, and I don't see any signs for it anywhere.

"Just round there, down the stairs to a half-floor," says the door lady.

Okay then.

"Don't worry, you have seven minutes. Plenty of time."

Sure is.

There's a sign over the stairwell. "Stalls & The Lounge," it says. With an arrow pointing down. No mention of a Studio.

Down the stairs, round the corner, down some more stairs. Is this the half level? There's a door. And a front of houser.

"Is this the studio?" I ask her.

"Yes," she says. "That's lovely," she adds as she spots my ticket.

And through I go, into an antechamber and to the next door.

This studio is packed. Rows and rows of chairs filled up.

I stand awkwardly in the doorway, wondering where on earth I'm going to fit myself in.

A man in evening dress comes over. "Hang on," he says, waving to an equally dressed-up lady standing at the back. "Is there a seat?"

There is. It has a fur coat slung over the back, but no one sitting in it.

"I don't want to move you," I tell the elegant lady.

She laughs and removes her coat. "I have to move anyway," she tells me. "Would you like a programme?"

"I'd love a programme!" I tell her, reaching for my purse.

Programmes are one pound and as I deal with that the lady inspects me.

"Do you know someone in the show?" she asks.

I cannot tell you how many times I've been asked a variation of this question on my marathon. Sometimes they ask how I'm connected with the show, others prod me on how I heard about it. But we both know, what they're really asking is: what are you doing here?

"No..." I say, still not sure, after ten months, how to explain my presence.

"Well, it's good of you to come." She hands me a programme, but I can still see the curiosity eating away at her. "How did you find us?" she asks.

With an internal sigh, I surrender to the inevitable and come clean. I'm doing a challenge. Trying to visit every theatre in London. "So here I am!" I say, throwing up my arms to demonstrate my presence.

"Are you a drama student?" she asks.

Oh lord... That's not the first time I've been accused of that this year, and I still can't get over it.

"No, but I do work in a drama school," I tell her.

This isn't true.

It is slightly true. Or at least, it will be true. Next week. I haven't technically started yet. But as I've already left my old job, I think it's true enough.

That done, our programme seller disappears into the crowd.

My neighbour leans over to me. "It's not usually like this," she laughs, before asking me about my blog. I get the impression she's worried I'm going to give the Churchill a bad review.

"Well, I'm going to the main house soon," I tell her. "So I'll get the full Churchill experience."

More people turn up and there's nowhere for them to sit.

Chairs are brought in, groups split up.

"I booked my tickets weeks and weeks ago," mutters one woman.

"It's first come first served," says her friend.

"But you shouldn't oversell!" comes the biting reply.

She's not wrong.

I scrap my chair along as more seats are carried in.

The black-tie ushers test walk through us. "Yes," says one. "Centre aisle is okay."

My neighbour spots something under her seat and reaches down. It's a stack of flyers. "These aren't yours?" she asks me.

"They're not." I may love print, but I draw the line at carrying around flyers on the weekend.

"They were here when you arrived?"

"Yes?" I mean... they must have been.

We look at them. They're not even advertising a show.

A man comes on stage.

"Apologies for the delay," he says. "We had technical issues due to... chairs."

And so we begin. Understanding Susan. We're in the thirties and a West End star returns home to cause chaos. It's funny enough and the first act zips along. Fast. Perhaps a little too fast.

We sit there, in our chairs. Not knowing what to do. Are we supposed to clap?

"We're now having a twenty-minute interval, ladies and gentlemen," comes the announcement.

Okay then.

I check my phone.

Half an hour has passed.

No wonder it felt fast.

I go out into the stairwell thinking I should probably get some more photos, but find myself just hanging out, listening to the sounds of the show in the main house buzzing on the other side of the walls.

A cast member appears.

"Can you hear me when I'm singing or not?" they ask a tech person.

"I can't."

"Shit," says the cast member.

I decide to go to the loo.

There's a queue inside. Not a long one. I stand around, waiting.

One of the stalls frees up.

"It's not flushing!" announces the lady as she steps out.

My stomach turns.

Yeah. No.

I decide I don't need to pee that badly, and return to the studio.

"The first half is very short," someone is explaining to my neighbour. "But the second is a bit longer. Scene changes," she explains apologetically.

The second act is a bit longer. And involves a lot of me leaning forward in order to avoid various cast members as they escape down the aisle and round the back of the room.

But we get through it.

Once the applause is done, it's my turn to make my escape. This is a two-show day and I was rather hoping to get some food before making my way to Kingston for my second venue.

"Have a safe journey home!" calls out an usher cheerily as I pass.

If only that's where I was going...

Umbrella up. Jacket buttoned. I step into the storm.

Ghosts of the past

I'm unemployed!

Yup, had my last day yesterday. Cleaned my desk. Spent an absolute age shifting all my programmes down to the print room in the basement. Said all my goodbyes. Got a speech. Couldn't make one. The threat of tears was too great. But got some lovely presents. And drunk. I got very, very drunk.

No matter. I'm paying for it today.

Hangover of the century happening right now.

But that's alright, because I'm getting on a train. To Romford.

I feel I could have planned this better, but honestly don't know how.

Where even is Romford?

I lean forward to look at the sign over the door.

Zone six! I'm going to zone six! I didn't even know there was a zone six, but there it is. With Romford in it. And soon enough: me.

The website for the Brookside Theatre says they're located opposite the Kenneth Elliott & Rowe Solicitors offices, which is not the most promising set of directions I've ever read.

When I find it, I stand there on the pavement and look at the building critically. It's brick. With a huge blue garage door on the front. And despite the lights being on upstairs, it looks deserted.

Oh dear. Have I got the day wrong?

I get out my phone and check my confirmation email.

"Thank you for booking your tickets for the upcoming event..." blah blah blah, it goes on, with details about printing at home, and collecting of tickets. I go through the entire thing searching for a date. Nothing.

Except for the order number up in the subject line, it is entirely generic.

I begin to worry that perhaps I've been scammed. That the Brookside Theatre is nothing more than this building with the lights on upstairs.

I cross the road to get a closer look.

There really is no one here.

I'm looking at it so hard I almost walk into the chains looping off the carpark.

I follow them to the end, and look up. There, on the fence, is a sign. Brookside Theatre, it says, with an arrow pointing away from the road.

I turn, and follow it. Down past the brick building, Through a car park.

And there, hiding at the back, is a little grotto. Paned windows overlook a garden filled with reeds. There's even a little bridge leading up to the front door. A front door topped with a pitched portico. It's like Snow White moved to Romford and set up house at the back of a car park.

Since the mines closed, the dwarves must have all got jobs at Kenneth Elliott & Rowe

"Programmes, three pounds!" comes a call as I step through the entrance into a dark blue foyer.

It's so dim in here I have to blink just to work out where I am.

"Raffle tickets!" calls another voice. "Two pounds to win tickets to any show here. Two pounds a strip."

Okay. I see it now. Lots of posing tables. Little merch kiosk on one side. Equally little box office window on the other. And... is that a Zoltar machine? They have a Zoltar machine.

I can't believe they have a Zoltar machine.

My second Zoltar machine of the marathon.

Of all the trends, I never thought I'd be seeing multiple Zoltar machines in London's theatres.

I can't handle this.

I'm going to pick up my ticket.

Might as well, I paid an extra one pound fifty for the privilege.

I go over to the window. "Hi! The surname's Smiles?"

"You booked today, didn't you?" says the box officer on the other side.

Yeah... I did book today. I think. It's so hard to tell. I might have still been a bit drunk at the time.

"I remember because I almost printed them early," he goes on. "Do you have ID on you? The card you paid with, or a passport, driving license, anything."

I want to tell him that while Romford may be in zone 6, I didn't need a passport to get here. But his smile is so earnest, I hold myself back.

I do have the card I paid with, so I show it to him, marvelling at the Hamilton-level security they've got going on here.

"That's so cool!" says the box officer looking down at my purse. I laugh. Yeah. It's pretty great. My elephant friend always gets attention.

"That's perfect," he says, checking my card. "So, you're in K8. That's the left side... or maybe the right... or..."

I laugh. "Don't worry," I tell him. "I'll figure it out."

Tonight is my 262nd theatre of the year. Excluding repeat visits. If I can't work out where my seat is by this point, there really is no hope for me.

Ticket thus acquired, I go in search of a programme.

The programme seller, with his three-pound programmes, has disappeared. I can't see him anywhere.

No matter. The kiosk has a sign advertising them. I just get one from there.

"Err," says the lady behind the counter when I ask for a programme.

"Are they on the move?" I ask, turning around just in case the programme seller has returned.

"Yeah," says the kiosk lady. "And the annoying thing is he was just here."

"Don't worry," I tell her, moving away to hunt down this roving programme seller.

"Wait!" She calls me back, grinning. "I've got one. Here you are. Three pounds."

"So you have change for a fiver?"

Her face falls once more. "Err. Sorry. I'm being really unhelpful. He has all the change."

"Don't worry, I think..." I rummage around in my elephant. "Two pounds, three. There you go."

"Perfect. Here's your programme. Enjoy the show!"

I turn, almost bumping into the programme seller as he takes another circuit of the room. "Programmes for three pounds!" Would anyone like a programme."

"Ladies and gentlemen. The house is now open. You can go in and take your seats."

Thank gawd. I need a sit down after all that.

I flash my ticket to the ticket checker and go inside. There's some steps, leading up to the back of the seats.

The ceiling is low. The walls are painted blue. And it's dark. Really dark. So dark that I cannot see the letters telling us what each row is. I have to lean right down. Which is tricky, because I'm wearing a mini dress. I mean, yes. I put shorts underneath. It's cold out there. But still. No one wants to see my lacy hot pants in here.

"What row is this?" asks the woman behind me. "If you can see!"

I laugh. "This is K... I think," I tell her. It better be K because I'm sitting in it.

The programme seller comes in. "I've only got three left! Programmes! Three pounds!"

A man gets his phone out and switches the torch on in order to navigate his party to their seats.

People fumble, and grip onto the seats as they make their way down the stairs.

The candle-shaped bulbs on the wall brackets offer the barest of assistance.

I try to have a read of the programme, but I can't make out anything on the pages. I give up. I wonder if this is an attempt to offer up an immersive atmosphere for tonight's show: The Canterville Ghost.

"Programmes! Three pounds! Only two left. No? Going, going, gone!"

Our town cryer disappears.

"A. B. C. D," says a man, counting from the back row.

We all look at one another, shocked to the core. In all my years of theatre-going...

"This is L," says a lady to him kindly. "A is right at the front?"

"Oh..."

He trudges down to the front row and eventually finds his seat in row B.

What little light we have disappears with a bang.

I jump. Audience members squeal.

And then we have to sit through minutes' worth of incidental music.

What a waste of a jump scare.

Oh well. At least we've started. With an 8pm curtain in Romford, I just hope I can get back to Hammersmith before midnight.

With the curtain now up, I can see that the Brookside has a nice little stage. And the set is very impressive for such a short run. They have even special effects. All very naice.

The story zips along with the cast running up and down the aisle as they escape from the ghost, and soon we are plunged into the interval.

"I haven't been here before. Have you?" asks a lady sitting in front of me.

Her companion shakes their head.

"We were shocked!" goes on the lady. "We thought that brick building at the front was it. It's cute where you go down here though."

Exactly what I was thinking, lady in the row in front!

"Ladies and gentleman," comes a voice from out in the foyer. "If you'd like to take your seats, the next act is about to begin."

With another flash and a crash, we are back in Canterville Castle, and the little girl of the family is determined to set all this family nonsense right.

It's all very cute and we applaud mightily at the end.

And then, that awkward pause which stretches out way too long as you sense one of the cast members has something to say.

The clapping stills.

Our housekeeper steps forward. "An extra round of applause for this one," she says pointing to the little girl.

We happily give it. It's quite something to carry a story like that.

I've sat through a lot of post-show speeches this year, and this one isn't bad. The building we're sitting in is a world war two memorial. When the theatre moved in, it was a leaking bingo hall for the old people. And they need money.

"A little girl with puppy dog eyes will be waiting with a bucket," she tells us. "As well as my very strange onstage husband. Any spare change would be much appreciated. Just it up and pop it in."

I've heard that one before, but I laugh all the same.

The cast disappears down the aisle, and sure enough, as I emerge into the foyer, there is the little girl with the puppy dog eyes, and the strange onstage husband. Both holding buckets.

I keep my head down as I run the gauntlet.

It's not that I think that they don't deserve the money, it's just... well, as I've said. I've sat through a lot of those post-show speeches.

After the Marathoner has Bolted

I'm back in Ruislip. Down on Manor Farm.

It's All Hallow's Eve Eve, and I'm going to watch a play about witch trials in a seven hundred-year-old barn, because that's how I roll.

And if you were ever in doubt about my dedication to this marathon, let me tell you, that in order to go to this event, and get this venue checked off my list, I extended the notice period at my job by an entire extra day.

Yup.

That's real.

I was supposed to have finished up my job today. Six weeks notice, ending at 6pm this evening.

But then I'd have to go and see this show. Which would mean missing out on the whole leaving do thing. Something that my grand-boss was not going to allow me to do. Oh no. I'm getting a party, whether I like it or not. Which means tomorrow, I'm going back into work. And I'm getting the full works: speeches, fizz, presents probably, I don't know. And then the traditional decamp at the pub.

On Halloween.

Which I am not unhappy about.

Walking out for the final time on 31 October is very me.

Good thing Brexit's been postponed though. That would have been awkward. One of our visiting companies already started calling my departure "Maxit." Which is super annoying. Because I didn't think of it first. Dammit.

Anyway, I'm here. I just hope they're grateful.

Just need to figure how where I'm supposed to be going.

It's so damn dark here.

I trudge up the drive, squinting at every sign I can see.

That's the library. It's not there.

Then there's the Cow Byre. I don't know what that is, but I know it's not that either.

I keep going.

Until I reach a hedge. A hedge I remember from the first time around because I freaked the hell out the last time I was here when a couple of adorable terriers were playing around it.

I double back. It has to be here somewhere.

There's no one around.

Not even a terrifying terrier.

Between the Cow Byre and the library there's a path. I follow it.

It the blackness, I spot a long, low, silhouette.

Is that the Great Barn? It's certainly great.

At the far end there's a square of yellow light.

I crunch my way along the path towards it.

The wooden doors to the probably-the-Great-Barn have been thrown open. And inside, there are some decidedly more modern looking glass doors. I push one open.

Warm air floods over me in a great wave.

The room is filled with chatter, and the roar of heaters.

There are three tables. One covered in CDs. Another in bottles. And a third with paper.

Merch, bar, and box office.

The trifecta of every decent theatre.

I go over to the papery one and give my name.

"Ah," says the box officer, pulling the last remaining ticket free from under the money box. "Help yourself to a glass of wine," she says, indicating the table behind her.

She sees me hesitate.

"It's free!" she says.

"Umm."

Look, here's the thing. I'm not really into wine. Even if it's free. It just doesn't do anything for me. I mean, sure I'll drink it. At like, an event, if I'm handed a glass. To be polite, you know. But I'm not going out my way for it.

"Or a soft drink," says the box officer, sensing the direction my thoughts are going in.

"Well, alright then. Thanks," I say. Might as well. It is free, after all.

I go over to the bar.

Wine is ready poured, but I spot a carton hiding behind them.

"Could I get an orange juice?" I ask.

The lady behind the bar looks down.

"Let me just grab you a clean glass," she says, disappearing into the back of the barn and out a side door.

I stand around, and take a few photos.

It is pretty spectacular in here. Those 13th-century barn builders know how to vault a ceiling.

Not sure they would have appreciated it much in 12-whatever-year-it-was. You wouldn't have been able to see them for shit. But the looks of it, there's only one window, set high in the wall on the far side. Even with the barn doors open, the main crop this place would have been storing is shadows.

"There you are," says the bar lady returning with two damp wine glasses in her hand. "Freshly washed," she adds, proudly. "Just in case."

"I feel honoured," I say, meaning it.

"You shouldn't," she laughs. "It's all part of the service."

And with that, she hands me my orange juice and I go off to explore the space.

A stage has been set up down the other end, under the window.

Seats run in narrow rows in between the rough pillars holding up that vaulted roof.

I look up.

It really is quite something.

And must be a total bitch to clean.

Look, over there. A blue balloon is caught in the rafters. It's streamer trailing sadly behind it. And further along... I pause and get out my glasses.

It's a man. Or perhaps more accurately, a guy. A stuffed figure. Straddling one of the beams.

That's... well, okay then.

I go to find a seat.

It's pretty full in here. Surprisingly full. The people of Ruislip are well up for witch trials in barns.

And by the looks of it, there's a surprising amount of Goths living locally. Black eyeliner is being rocked all over the place. And one sweet young man has got a Slytherin scarf slung around his neck. Bless. I do love to see my house represented out in the wild.

"Is there anyone on the end here?" I ask a family taking up the remainder of a row. Mum and two young girls.

She shakes her head. "Nope." It's all mine.

There's a freesheet waiting for me on the seat. It's black. Professionally printed. With a very Blair Witchy style title treatment.

I'm well excited now.

I spend my time happily alternating between sipping orange juice and taking photos. I like it in here. It's creepy and cool and cosy. The three Cs.

And then the heaters go off.

We must be ready to start.

A front of houser comes forward. Turns out, she runs this place. Fire exits are pointed out, including the one hiding behind the stage.

I look around. It has just occurred to me that we are sitting in a very old, wooden building.

Good thing we've been getting plenty of rain recently.

There's no stage lighting to speak of, so when the play starts, it's within a shared light environment. Very true to the period. Although the blinding electrics in this place would have been more light then any of these characters saw in their entire lives.

We're in the 16th century, and Mark Norman's Sir William Tyrell is called upon when Sam Burns' Thomas Latimer accuses Tracey Norman's Margery Scrope of witchcraft.

We follow the accusations, as Norman scribbles away making notes to the distant sound of church bells pealing away.

And I have to admit, even with the ecclesiastical soundscape, it's not quite doing it for me.

It feels like we've been dropped into the end of the story. We're watching Poirot's wrapup without ever getting to witness the murders. And I can totally see why its done this way, but... yeah. Not for me.

It doesn't help that it's freezing cold. Without the heaters on blast, we are basically sitting in a old barn. Even cows are given hay and stuff to keep out the chill.

As the cast comes out to receive their applause, we launch straight into a Q&A. With Norman still wiping the tears of desperate anguish from her face as they do so.

But it's the actors asking questions of the audience.

What did we think? Was she guilty?

Honestly, debating the possible guilt of a fictional character is not something I’m bothered by. They tell us that the story is meant to be balanced. That you are not meant to know. And that's enough for me.

But then Norman starts talking about the historical background of it all, and I suddenly get interested.

And yes, there's the usual twat in the audience who feels the need to show off that they know what year the poor laws were codified, but on the whole, this a fucking great discussion.

If they were all like this, I might actually start staying for them willingly.

Questions done, we're invited to hang around, talk to the cast, sign the guest book.

I'm not having with any of that, even with the assurance that the heaters are going back on. I am the first one out the door.

This is my third trip to Ruislip, and I'll be damned if I'll be spending another evening shivering on a platform. Sending up a prayer and a promise of a thousand offering to each of the theatre gods, I half-run down the hill towards the train station.

As I beep through the turnstiles, I can hear the sound of a train approaching.

Now that's real witchcraft for you.

Elbows at Dawn

I'm off to the Bush Theatre tonight. A place I love. Although I'm fairly confident I've thrown a lot of shit over the years, complaining that they are hard to get to just because they're lurking all the way down at the end of the Circle line.

Yeah, well. My tolerance of hard-to-get-to-ness has been raised this year. I've shivered on platforms for twenty minutes waiting for trains that would never come. I've walked miles. I've had nice ladies on trains offer me sweets to stop me from fainting in overheated carriages. The Bush Theatre is not hard to get to. It's right opposite Shepherds Bush Market, for gawd's sake. I admit it. I was precious as fuck at the start of this year. But I have had my consciousness raised. And I think we can agree that I'm the better for it.

Anyway, as I was saying, I do love the Bush Theatre. It's so nice. And homey. And warm. And welcoming. And shiny. Let's not forget that. It's looks hella swish, with its bright yellow signage and fine red brick walls.

I don't think there could even be a more welcome sight than that of the warm light pouring out of the Bush's glass frontage after you've just battled against the Hammersmith and City line to get there.

Okay. Okay. I'm going to stop talking about trains now. I am. I promise.

I scoot through the little courtyard area that the Bush has going on, and through the automatic doors.

It's packed. I'm late. And everyone is busy getting their drink orders in before going in.

I join the queue at the box office. It moves fast, and soon enough I'm at the front giving my surname.

"Pardon?" says the box officer, leaning in.

"Smiles? S. M. I-"

He's already off, looking through the ticket box, and yup. He's found them.

"Your tickets are here," he says, handing them over. "It's seventy minutes straight through. No readmission."

That has to be the most perfect sentence in the English language. Seventy minutes straight through. The absolute dream.

As I double back the way I came, I find myself practically having to step over people as they pour through the door.

I know I should have avoided all this by looping my way around the box office and past the bar in order to get to the auditorium, but there's a chalkboard here that I want to get a photo of.

Yes, there it is.

"Baby Reindeer," it reads in pretty purple letters.

"70 minutes. No interval."

Oh bliss. I read that again just to revel in the sheer joy of it.

"No readmittance."

Yup. Love it.

"Contains haze." Cool. "Strong language." Fuck yeah. "References to sexual abuse, violence, stalking & transphobia." Oh. Shit. Well, guess you can't have everything in life. Here I was thinking I was getting a nice play about Rudolph from before he got famous.

"Hello and welcome to the Bush Theatre. For tonight's performance, Baby Reindeer, please take your seats. It'll be starting in five minutes."

Right then. Looks like I've going in.

I go through the strange stairwell that the Bush has in the middle of their foyer.

Over on the other side is the entrance to the newly named Holloway Theatre.

I had forgotten about that. And the near heart attack that the announcement had given me. I don't want any theatres tweeting out about their 'new theatres' between now and New Year. I'm calling time on openings, reopenings, renamings, and anything else until the clock hits midnight on 31 December. Then they can do what they want. Open pop-ups in their gender-neutral loos if that's what they want to do.

But some of us have marathons that we're still pretending are possible to finish. And I don't want any more nonsense before it's over. My heart cannot take it.

On the bar is a huge dispenser of cucumber water. A woman stops to pull out a water bottle and fills it up with spa-goodness before rejoining the queue.

The ticket checker is selling playtexts.

Fuck yeah.

You know how much I love programmes. And playtexts? Well, they are just another level on top of that. You get to take the entire play home with you, for four quid! That's epic. As is the knowledge these fuckers are going to cost the best part of a tenner when they hit the theatre section of Foyles.

"Can I get a playtext?" I ask the ticket checker.

"Of course!" she says with suggests that people here don't know what a damn bargain they're getting. "That's four pounds."

I get out my purse, but the queue behind me isn't going away.

I step back and wave the next person forward.

"Oh sorry," they say, as if it was them getting in my way. They dither for a second, but then, with the more embarrassed expression ever, step forward.

"Do you have change for a tenner?" I ask the very patient ticket checker. The queue is growing bigger by the minute, and I'm not sure there's enough cucumber water left to keep these people going while I start searching for four pound coins.

Turns out she does, and we do that awkward hand shuffle as we trade currency and balance a playtext between the both of us.

Inside, another front of houser waits for us. I shove my purse back in my bag and show him my ticket.

"B11? Over there, second row," he says, pointing across the stage to the opposite block of seating.

I pause to look around.

You never know what you are going to find in the Bush.

Tonight we're in the round. Or rather, in the square. With seating on four sides.

An almost Gothic arched architecture has been sculpted out of the space with cloth sails stung up between pillars.

In the centre is a circle of light.

I make my way around to what the sign tells me, is block D.

I find my seat. Second row. Right on the aisle.

Nice.

A group of girls come over. One of them is pointing to the empty seats next to me.

I get up to let them pass.

"That's not us," one of them says with the type of disdain that can only be levelled against someone you are really good friends with.

"Oh, sorry," says the pointer to me, with a hand motion for me to sit back down. She squints at the seats. "No! It is! Look! Sorry, that is us."

The two girls thank me as they pass.

A third, silent one, follows on behind. She doesn't say anything, but does give me a good jab with her elbows as she takes her jacket off, which I'm sure you can agree, is almost as good.

As I nurse my bruised arm, I look around.

It's a very young crowd in here. Lots of cool-looking people. Even the usher is wearing a beanie with his t-shirt.

Strange pits have been sunk into the floor, and the people sitting in them manage to not "oof" as they climb into them. That's the level of youth we're talking here.

As the lights dim, projections whizz around us on the gothic sails, and Richard Gadd appears to tell us the tale of his stalker.

It's great.

Like, it's really great.

Like, properly fucking amazing.

I'm not the only one to think so.

Across the way from me is a young woman with red hair, watching rapt, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide with horror at Gadd's story.

She winces and gasps and clutches her wine glass to her chest.

I can't stop staring at her.

It's getting embarrassing. But I have never in all my life seen such an expressive face.

Just as I realise that I'm quick becoming the stalker in this room, the man sitting in front of my rams his elbow back, right into my knee.

I wince and shift away as his arm retreats.

But a second later, he does it again. His elbow rising up as his rummages around in his trouser pocket.

Then a third time.

Gawd knows what he's keeping in there.

I add my knee to my list of bruised limbs.

Honestly, there must be some point-based game going on at the Bush tonight. How many times can the audience elbow the person in B11?

Four times.

That's how many.

Gadd finishes his tale, leaving a cuddly toy reindeer on the stage behind him as he retreats from our applause, only returning to give the room a general thumbs-up.

We head for the exit, crowding it as four different blocks of seats aim for a single door.

"I like the space," says someone standing behind me.

"Great space," their companion agrees.

"You'd never been to the old space though," says the first, with the smugness of a true Bush-hipster.

As I wait, I turn airplane mode on my phone off.

There's a notification.

A general election has been called.

Oh, what fun.

At least I don't have to get on the tube now. I can walk to Hammersmith from here. That's something...

The next day I'm still thinking about Baby Reindeer.

Fuck, that play is intense. Seventy minutes of pure heart-pounding fear. And it was funny too.

There's a level of talent there, that I just can't process. I don't understand how people like that manage to exist. I can't even say I'm jealous, because we exist on entirely different levels of reality.

I scroll through Twitter, half to read about what people more intelligent than I am are saying about the election, and half to distract myself from thoughts of Martha the stalker.

And then I see her.

That girl.

The one with the red hair.

I stop scrolling, picking up the phone to so at it closely.

Yup, that's definitely her. She's even wearing the same jumper I saw her in last night. Black. With roses.

She's only bloody in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. That's Emma May Uden!

Fuck's sake. I told you she had an expressive face. She's a frickin' actor.

I very carefully do not follow her on Twitter before shutting down the app, putting away my phone, and deciding to take a break from social media.

A Nightmare on New Cross Road

I'm a little bit nervous about going to tonight's theatre. I've never been there before, but I've seen it. Many times, Back when I was a post-grad student, I used to walk past it all the time.

It lurked. Underground. Just off to the side of the pavement. Only a black board covered in rain-soaked flyers hinting at its existence.

I've told you before about my theory on finding fringe theatre venues when you are a bit lost. The trick is to always head in the direction that looks most likely to contain your inevitable death. The darker and more narrow the alleyway, the more likely it is to have a sixty-seater venue specialising in diverse new writers. I'm telling you. You could plot those points on a graph and get yourself a very tasty sigmoid curve going on.

And so it is with The London Theatre, luring us down beneath New Cross Road for the most nefarious purpose of all: theatre.

I should say, so it was with The London Theatre.

Because it's not called The London Theatre anymore.

Perhaps they had one too many confused tourists come in thinking they were going to get their weep on at a big-budget performance of War Horse, and decided to switch to a slightly less misleading name: The Ale Room.

Whether the theatre will live up to the promise of its new name, I guess I'm going to find out.

Soon.

I pause on the pavement and take my usual exterior photos. But they are taking forever. I tell myself it's because it's dark, and that my camera is struggling with the reflections from the street lights. But both you and I know that this is all a crock of shit. I'm dithering. Not wanting to go inside. Putting it off for as long as possible.

An old man laden down with shopping passes by and gives me a funny look.

I should get a move on, before people start thinking that I'm casing the joint.

Down the stairs I go, and through the door.

Inside is a very small corridor. Brightly lit and painted white. It doesn't look like it belongs to a theatre. It doesn't look like it belongs to anything. What it looks like, is a mistake.

Over on the wall is a small gap. More of a hole, really.

A woman peers out at me from behind it.

"Box office?" I ask doubtfully.

"Yup?" she says, confused at my confusion.

I slide over. "The surname is Smiles?"

She runs her pen down the list of names in front of her. "Yup! Enjoy," she says with a finality that suggests that our exchange is over.

Well, okay then.

I guess I just go through.

There isn't any signage, so it with some trepidation that I follow the corridor around a corner.

But it isn't a man wearing a ski mask and wielding a samurai sword waiting for me on the other side. Oh no. Instead, I find a small room, with a bar taking up one wall, and a large mirror over on the other. The space in between is rammed with a chaise longue and various other seating arrangements.

I appear to have just stepped into the smallest pub in all the world. And while the crowd over by the bar is too dense for me to actually get a good look at what's on offer, I'm sure they have a very fine selection of ales going on back there.

I don't really fancy asking the girls sharing the chaise longue whether they mind squishing up to make room for me, so I go through to the second room to investigate what's going on in there.

In here, there's a long wooden table with an equally long wooden bench, which I immediately claim as my own.

And from this angle, I can see that there's a set of dog bowls down on the floor. They're empty, but they're there. I look around for the corresponding hundry dog, but if there is the scamper of four paws going on anywhere in this place, I can't find it.

There is a poster though. Stuck up at dog-height. "Mutt Stop," it says, with an arrow pointing down at the empty bowls.

I'm not sure what to make of that.

Nor of the aeroplane seating I've just spotted over at the back of the room. There's even an oxygen mask hanging down from the ceiling.

Nice to know that we'll be looked after in the event of The Ale Room going down, I suppose.

And then I remember the empty dog bowls.

That oxygen mask probably isn't even hooked up to an air supply.

"And The London Theatre...?" asks someone, who is isn't me, but probably should have been, over at the bar. Bless them, tackling the hard-hitting questions I want to know the answer to, but am prevented from asking because of my crippling social anxiety,

"Yeah," says the guy behind the bar, with the tones of someone who has had to answer this question a lot. "Basically, The London Theatre was sold..."

I don't hear the rest of his explanation because I am immediately distracted by a group talking about the play.

"Did they tell you anything?" asks the person in the group who clearly knows everything there is to know about this work.

"It's comfort girls?" comes the tentative reply.

"Yeah," says the first person, nodding regally. "Pretty much. I saw it last night and it's... harrowing."

Oh good.

That's what I really wanted tonight. A harrowing play in a basement theatre in New Cross.

I can't claim to be surprised through. I knew full well what I was booking.

Joy Division. Not the post-punk band that features heavily on my Spotify playlists, unfortunately. But the name for the Nazi sex slaves kept to service the officers.

I did consider wearing my band t-shirt today but thought better of it for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it's fucking freezing. But also, perhaps more importantly, no front of houser deserves to be confronted by some who so clearly misunderstood the nature of the show they were attending. Even if they do work in a creepy basement. I can see them now, their poor little faces, all scrunched up as they try to work out how to explain the situation. Oof. Even I'm not that cruel.

The line of people at the bar shifts and I manage to catch a glimpse of a huge glass jar crammed with what looks like dog treats.

That's a relief.

The dog bowl is ready to be filled when the moment comes. Even if this audience does remain disappointingly human.

A young woman comes in and takes a seat on the bench next to me.

It sinks alarmingly under our combined weights and I brace my feet against the ground, sending up a short prayer to the theatre gods that we won't need that oxygen mask.

I check the time.

It's ten past eight. Ten whole minutes past the start time, with no sign of the house opening. There's a door in the opposite room, a black curtain and metal chain keeping us out. I presume that's the entrance to the theatre, and not just where they keep the bodies.

It's packed in here, but I can't help but think they must be stalling while they wait for latecomers to arrive.

Plenty of small venues do it. And it's not like I disapprove of the practice. But, it's now twelve whole minutes past eight. On a Monday. And I kinda want to get on with things so that I can either go home or get murdered. Either way, I want to be sleeping before midnight.

The music cuts out.

"Right guys," says a man stepping through the crowd towards the dark door. "If you want to come through!"

I'm not sure I do, but I fall in line with everyone else just the same.

Beyound the black curtain, is a small black room.

With a dead body on the ground.

A guiding hand points me towards the front row.

"Can I go in the back?" I say, keeping a careful eye on the body.

It's a woman. Lying face down on the floor. She's dressed in a shift, except so boxy it might as well be a hospital gown. It's filthy with blood and grime.

The man hesitates "There's so much action," he says, waving in the general direction of the dead body, "we're trying to fill up the front."

Oh.

I glance at the body. Her feet at bare. The soles pointed towards the front row. They look vulnerable and sad, and I really don't want to be staring right at them.

"Can I sit over there?" I say, pointing at the small group of seats on the short wall by the door.

I can, so I tuck myself into the corner.

I look around.

It's a small room. Long and quite narrow. The walls are painted black.

There are two rows of chairs, on two side of the room. With a few extra tucked under a window in the corner. I can't quite make it out, but I suspect the tech desk is on the other side of that glass.

Behind me is a clock. You don't often get those in theatres. They tend to take the casino approach, in that it's better for audiences not to know how long they've been in there.

Not that it matters. It's showing entirely the wrong time.

Below it, behind the last row of chairs, is a model railway. A small one. But even so. That's weird. Like, super weird. Like, serial killer level of weird.

I twist back in my chair and try to pretend that I've haven't even seen it.

More people come in and they fill in the seats around me.

"Go in the front, you'll see more," is the constant advice.

I watch the body down on the floor carefully. If that's an actor regulating her breathing, she is damn good at it.

Disconcertingly good.

We are definitely all about to get murdered.

Although when it comes to it, the last people through the door have to plonk themselves in the second, and only other, row.

I'm slightly jealous.

Even more so when the play starts.

Things are not going well for the woman on the floor. She's not dead, but that's hardly an upgrade given the circumstances. As the other girls in the camp discover her, sympathy is not first on their list of priorities. And it's left to the new girl to look after her.

Everyone is frightened. Terrified.

They live in a prison where three mistakes will have them taken out back and shot.

They're jealous of the Jewish Poles over at the other camp. They only have to do factory work. They don't have the constant threat of bad reports hanging over them.

There are compensations though. Stockings and sweets from one of their regulars.

That is, until he finds out that the beautiful newcomer is Jewish.

Reminding us that now, although the camps are nothing more than a tourist destination to take selfies, the crimes they perpetuated are still happening all over the world, the cast returns, stumbling in too high heels as they gyrate under the red lights.

The men in the front row squirm, embarrassed, not sure where to look.

"Can I ask everyone to go to the main room, as the actors are coming out."

We file out, past the model railway and the clock saying the wrong time, and back into the smallest pub in the world.

A queue forms at the bar. I'm not surprised. You need a drink after that.

But I make a break for it. Up the stairs and back into the cold night air, glad I got away with my life.