Caught Short

It was a calculated risk. Leaving the children with their grandparents, I escaped with my husband to London last week, to re-connect with my inner luvvie, visit the National Theatre, and watch “The Hour We Knew Nothing of Each Other”, a play with no talking in it. I’d always wanted to go to the National Theatre, just to swan around and see whether every square inch was indeed imbued with that little extra sprinkling of stardust. Well, you never know.

            First though, obviously, because we were down from the hills, we had to hit the shops and to our surprise, we ended up buying my husband his first new suit since the double-breasted glory days of 1989.

            “I’ll just keep it on,” he announced to the shop assistant, who responded with an Oscar-winning show of looking like people said that to him all the time.

            So by the time we arrived at the theatre for an early dinner, we were giddy not only with the anticipation of the great big wodge of culture we were about to witness but also, with the excitement of our landmark purchase.

            “I’d like some champagne, please.” The request was out of my mouth almost before I sat down. Well, it was London, we were in the National Theatre on the point of ticking a box in my life’s ‘to-do’ checklist and I was sitting opposite a man doing a passable James Bond impersonation, who happened to be my husband. Any self-respecting woman would have ordered exactly the same thing.

            Later, with the cultural sides of our brains fully engaged in the ‘on’ position we entered the auditorium, took our seats in the front row of the circle, and waited for curtain-up.

            And waited.

            Fifteen minutes passed. I was beginning to regret all that champagne. I glanced at my watch. The curtain ought to have gone up ages ago. Was there time to dash out to the ladies’?

            Well, needs must. “Sorry,” I mumbled, standing up and beginning an ungainly clamber back along the row. “Sorry! Sorry!” People shifted bags and legs and coats as I squeezed by. Somebody actually tutted.

            Safely outside, heading for the ladies’ in the foyer, my progress was arrested by a wee slip of a girl, wearing a scarlet National Theatre T-shirt and brandishing a walkie-talkie and a fistful of ticket stubs.

            “Sorry,” I said for the umpteenth time, “but can I quickly dash to the ladies’?”

            She frowned. “Not really, I’m afraid. The performance is already ten minutes’ late starting…” then she glanced over her shoulder at the little TV monitor on the wall. “Oh! It’s started!”

            I followed her gaze in horror. Sure enough, the auditorium had blacked out, and spotlights blazed on the stage below.

            There wasn’t a second to spare. Spinning round, I abandoned my mission and made to dart back inside to my seat.

            “No!” she cried, hand poised over the walkie-talkie on her hip. “You can’t go back in!”

            I froze. “Pardon?”

Okay, so, ten seconds ago I wasn’t allowed out and now I wasn’t to be allowed back in? Trapped, in showbiz no-man’s-land.  I looked the lassie up and down. She was smaller than me, which takes some doing. I reckon I could have just about taken her if it had come to a full-out brawl.

            But then she seemed to soften. “Well…okay, where are you sitting?”

            “Right at the front,” I admitted.

            Hearing this, she toughened up again. Clearly, nobody was going to go barging their way along the front row after curtain-up on her watch.

            “Look,” she began, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to…”

Too late. I’d pushed open the door and shot back into the auditorium.

            The anticipated flying tackle from behind never came as I apologised my way clumsily back over the now invisible, though definitely still disapproving legs, back to my seat.

            Holding my breath, I waited for a searchlight to rake the audience and settle upon the small Highlander with the guilty expression and the crossed legs. That didn’t happen either, so at last, I tried to forget the discomfort and focus on the stage.

            “You okay?” my husband whispered.

            “Yes,” I hissed back. “I’ll just have to hang on, and go in the interval.”

            “There is no interval,” came the reply, “and it’s two hours long.”

            So, I may have fulfilled one of my life’s ambitions by going to see a play at the National Theatre, but please, don’t ask me what it was about. I have no idea.