The Crucible performance that never was: August 25th

Continued from here. [All these pictures are stolen.]

***

I sleep well, and wake up in the early evening and traipse next door to a pub for a pint of bitter (Wells Bombardier, in case you’re interested, which I’d tried in the U.S. and quite like) and a beef pie, and a piece of banoffee pie (I’ve been reading about this for years — and it’s truly awful. But at least now I’ve tried it). And then I traipse back and post a few times. So far, my on-blog masquerade seems to be holding up at least in terms of no gap in blogging, if not in terms of the times I am posting. Then I go back to bed. I realize I haven’t been sleeping well for days and hope this trip will reset my clock a bit.

Job one for Monday is to run an errand I have planned in Southwark, and then walk to the Old Vic box office to pick up the tickets and try to work out the returns I wanted. Now that Guylty’s coming it won’t be as much of a pain. Except that it’s a bank holiday (I knew this — LondonFriend had told me, but somehow the information hadn’t fully registered) and so the errand can’t be accomplished. And then it’s raining. Not hard in the way of our tempests at home, but quite heavily and very steadily and it goes on and on and on. It’s not long before my tennis shoes are soaked and despite the umbrella and jacket, the rest of me is damp as well. The negative feeling from the day before yesterday is returning in spades. At first, I think it’s the rain.

I get to the box office — and this is the first time I see that huge, gorgeous poster of Richard Armitage as John Proctor; I haven’t seen it in the tube, unfortunately. I give them my diverse order numbers and they print out all the tickets and I try to explain what I want — I now need only nine of the tickets I have and would like to return the remaining ones. I’m hoping this will be no trouble as the show has been sold out for some time now and I’ve seen pictures of people queuing for returns. After a little condescension from the ticket agent about how many tickets I’ve bought and some rather passive-aggressive discussion — sorry, Old Vic, I wasn’t rude; your customer service leaves a little to be desired, or maybe it’s just the conflict in the canon of manners between the English and Americans — we straighten the situation out and I leave with the tickets I need in hand and the other ones slated for return. The queasiness grows. What the heck is my problem?

I now splash my way back to the hotel and decide that rather than sightseeing in London in the rain, I’ll journal for a while and nap. I take off my wet things and spread them through the room to dry, and lie down. The hotel wakes me up as requested at five, and I think a little — and in the brief moment before the nausea descends onto my body again, I realize the problem is a proximity issue. Here I am, to see this play, and Richard Armitage is here to do this play. We’re in the same notional space for the first time ever in any meaningful sense. That’s why I am feeling so sick and unhappy. OK. At least I know now what the problem is, even if I can’t fix it. All of my bubble rule issues are being severely provoked. I log on and chat for a while with a fellow fan in the U.S. who calms my fears and reassures me I am not crossing my own boundaries.

At 6:15, I say goodbye to her and turn off my computer. I open the suitcase and look for the theatre outfits. Which I stuffed in there at the last second. The skirt from the first one doesn’t fit anymore — slides off my hips, and I don’t have a belt. Shoot. Okay, second try works. Black skirt, black top, black jacket, black boots. I don’t like the flounce on this skirt so well and realize I have no stockings. Oh well, S, no one is looking at you. I put it on, don my black coat and shake off my black umbrella and take up my black shoulder bag and walk in my black mood toward the theater (about seven minutes walk at my very slow pace) and decide to have dinner at Pret a Manger on The Cut. This also makes me think pleasantly of mom, who wanted to eat every London meal here while we were visiting, but I am way too nervous to eat anything and I tuck the food I’ve bought into my bag.

At 7, the restaurant closes, and so I take the last few steps toward the Old Vic, and there’s a huge crowd of people in front of it. Huh, I think. Early arrivers? I get to the entrance and pull out my ticket and offer it to an usher who’s standing outside the theater, which I think a bit odd. Usually ushers are outside the theater, but I noticed that morning that it is a kind of small space. Oh, she says, have you only just arrived? Yes, I reply. The performance has been canceled tonight due to unforeseen circumstances. I must look horrified, because her face falls when she sees mine, and I say, Is everyone all right? and she says, unforeseen circumstances is all we have been told. She’s perfectly nice as she offers me a coupon for a free drink in the bar and tells me how I can seek a refund.

I walk into the lobby and a space that comfortably holds perhaps 50 people is completely mobbed with disgruntled theatergoers. A long line goes up the staircase, and the room is cramped, muggy, and loud. I don’t know anyone there (or I probably do, but don’t know how to find them, and don’t want to out myself); I am damp; I don’t especially want a drink; and it’s going to take hours to get a refund. I decide to walk back to the hotel, which I do, getting drenched yet one more time in the process.

I strew yet more wet clothes around the room to dry, and turn the computer back on (how did we manage before we had these devices?) and discover that Armitage had tweeted that the performance was canceled not long after I’d logged off earlier.

Our sincere apologies for the cancellation of The Crucible this evening due to unforeseen circumstances. We were all ready to go…

— Richard Armitage (@RCArmitage) August 25, 2014

No tweet from Old Vic — although they have a Twitter account. #Fail. In any case, it couldn’t have been avoided, but the anger and frustration on the web are great. I think — I should have hung on to those tickets, I could make some people happy, but I don’t think I can get them back now. I try to sympathize with one or two people who are now wondering what the heck they’ll do. And then I see — Armitage is in the bar, taking pictures with fans. Wow. Class act.

And now I’m doubly, triply happy that I fled the theater.

Guylty sends me a message, because tomorrow’s the day she’s coming. What if it’s canceled again? We have no information. We decide that the point is less the play, which she’s seen before, than the opportunity to meet. She promises to ring me from the lobby of the hotel when she’s there, and I call it a night.

***

To August 26th, part 1.

~ by Servetus on September 5, 2014.