Things I miss during lockdown
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I miss going to the theatre. I miss the queue to get in and the huddle in the lobby. I miss hearing the debates as to which door people need to go through to get to their seats; mansplainers authoritatively declaring that they know their way around perfectly well—“thank you very much, Margery”—only to be turned around and sent in the other direction by the usher. I miss the shuffling of tickets, the scanning or tearing of stubs, the reading and re-reading of letters and numbers to memorise where we need to be and hoping it isn’t too close to poor Margery’s partner.
I miss the hunt for our seats, stepping over handbags and coats, the sighs of the person on the end of the row who already stood up four times and who, last time, was almost pinned to the wall by a fellow patron with a larger back stage area than the venue. I miss seeing those in the wrong seats politely informed of their predicament; the oh so British manner of wrong and wronged apologising for the mistake, then apologising again for apologising over the other’s apology. I miss fold-down seats and armrests too thin for either neighbour to use. I don’t miss having less leg room than a giraffe in a bobsleigh, but I miss the spectacles I’ve endured such hardships for. I miss the rustle of sweet wrappers, their contents demolished as fast as possible lest they rustle again once the room falls silent.
I miss the dimming of the house lights, and the hush that follows. The swell of the orchestra or the first thudding steps of the show’s protagonist. I miss the opening song or monologue, the myriad of set changes and the hurry to replace costumes from one scene to the next. That one line, that refrain, that delicate arrangement of notes, that sets me up for what I’m about to witness, stealing into my subconscious and grasping tight. I miss the unfolding of a story, losing myself so much that I forget I’m watching people do this live. I miss the punchlines and titters, one-liners and guffaws, melancholy and tears, lumps in throats, gasps and wonder. I miss the character or tune added for comic effect, and the rousing crescendo that precedes the interval.
I miss the queue for overpriced, undersized tubs of ice-cream and the snap of the not-quite-spoon included inside the lid. I miss watching the line for the toilets, glad that I went before we left; seeing those at the wrong end checking their watches, crossing and uncrossing their legs, hoping that the five minute warning is long enough to do what biology dictates must be done. I miss the scramble to return in time, those last few seconds of standing, legs stretched and bruised knees throbbing ahead of another giraffe analogy to come.
I miss the medley of melodies as the show resumes; conductor and conducted reminding us of character themes and the tunes we’ll be playing in our heads on the journey home and throughout the days that follow. I miss the return of actors, watered and towelled down as they carry us towards epilogue and encore. I miss the the bows and the applause, the standing ovations and the cheers for our leads, prime or understudy in ascendency.
I miss the fall of the curtain, the bright yellow light that floods the auditorium, the hunt for coats and scarfs in winter, or bags and bottles in summer. Prising myself from between the back of my seat and the row in front to take the slightly less graceful version of Bambi’s first steps while my circulation kicks in again. I miss the knitting together of the crowd in the aisles, rows disgorging in twos and threes as politeness opens a space—quickly filled by those for whom the interval queues proved just slightly too long.
I miss the thrum and buzz of being reunited in the lobby, of last minute programme sales, of cast recordings and logo T-shirts passed from hand to hand across wooden counters carved out of time. I miss the conversations of favourite parts, of a hundred mouths simultaneously sharing fresh memories with their party as they make for the paired doors—“no, Margery, I’m quite certain it’s this way”. I miss the excitement of people pouring out onto busy streets, of the sounds of traffic and muffled laughter. I miss the hunt for taxis or the hurry for restaurant tables. I miss the walk along bustling pavements, ears ringing and thoughts alive with the spark of all that happened since we last saw the sky.
I miss the theatre, as I’ve missed so many other things during the last year. And, one day, I look forward to doing it all again.