Sitting meditating over a muffin in Starbucks (Skinny Blueberry, since you ask), it occurred to me that the congregation is always urged to help around the church with all sorts of jobs, and sometimes the job profile is not very clear. So here, from years of experience with the Hampstead Players, is all you need to know. And I wish to state that no reference to any living person is intended.
The Front of House team consists of several people. My job is to sell tokens for the bar, so that the bar staff, who have enough on their hands already, don’t have to handle money. It’s a splendid system, with green tokens for soft drinks, mineral water and so on, and red tokens for wine.
Comes the night of the appropriate performance. The doors remain impenetrably shut until half an hour before the start. So impressive is the moment when they are opened you would have expected the Archbishop of Canterbury to have banged on them with his crosier, but all that is revealed is a raggle-taggle queue. While my long-suffering colleagues on the ticket desk deal with pre-bookings “I know I did it!” and spelling – “It’s in my friend’s name” I wait, sombrely attired (House Rules), seated at the receipt of custom.
It starts well. Smart forty-something with pretty wife. Can he have tokens for red and white wine? I explain, for the first of many times, that you can have white wine with a red token. They’re all the same. Just as I’m negotiating the change, several people arrive. “Henry!” cries my customer joyfully “Great to see you! It’s on me! I insist!” We then establish that Henry’s Charlotte is parking the car. Eventually they are reunited. I then find my new friend back at my desk. Charlotte only wants a soft drink. Can he change the token? Can he have his money back? Of course he can.
Some of the Shakespeares are set for school exams, and not only Shakespeare. Enter Mum, with teenage daughter Annabel. Before we can even start on an order, Annabel has discovered her dear friend from South Hampstead, Julia, is there too. The young ladies disappear in a cloud of exquisite hair, to do a spot of texting. This is understandable as they, and a large team, are engaged on a serious sociological study to decide which has the hottest Sixth Form – Highgate or U.C.S.? The sudden discovery of gorgeous George or wonderful William can upset months of patient research and there are problems to solve. Should Jesse’s cute American accent affect the profile?
So I am left with Mum.
Unfortunately, Dad is away deciding our financial destinies in Dubai. Hong Kong or Brussels, so Tom, who is only fourteen, can’t be left Home Alone. Tom, here present, has obviously heard the famous quip by Grouch Marx “I’ve had a wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it.” It may be that one day Tom will gaze into a woman’s eyes. At the moment he is glowering at the floor. “Tom, do you want a drink?” asks Mum. Sullen silence. “Tom, do you want a DRINK?” Tom lets out the kind of growling snarl which brings complaints from TV viewers, but which is taken for yes.
I think we are sorted. But no. A few minutes later Mum is back. “My daughter doesn’t want a drink. Can I have my money back?”
Once more unto the breach…..
Two elderly Gentlewomen appear. Instinct tells me this is not going to be fun. One requests a (free) programme. She doesn’t actually address me as My Good Woman, but the effect is the same. Anxious to be welcoming, I ask would they care for a drink? Some wine? “We don’t want WINE!” she replies. Giving me a look as if I were offering her coke in Camden Market, they sweep away.
It’s cheering when somebody appears and greets me most warmly. How nice it is to see, and how am I? It would be better if I had any recollection of ever seeing them before, and I haven’t the faintest idea who they are.
I’m faced with another challenge. Customer wants some wine. (By this time the bar supervisor has given me a drink, which is keeping me going.) But oh, dismay – they haven’t got quite enough money. A handful of 1p and 5p coins is turned out, and I’m not pleased when they say they will have to owe me 50p. They then appear to be conducting a survey of who lives within the boundaries of the Old Parish, and eventually return triumphant.
By now the start of the play is approaching. People to whom I‘ve handed programmes say they want a drink. “You need a token!” I cry desperately, as they head for the bar at a speed that would leave Ben Hur trailing, and of course they’re back to me just as all the lights go down.
Most of plays are in contemporary costume, and most of the entrances and exits in the church are used. It’s a bit unfortunate when I ask some nice-looking chap in a suit if he’ d like a drink, only to be told that he is in the play, and waiting to go on.
During the performance I’m allowed to sit in the audience. Before I can do this, I must first find out when the interval is. So I rush to my manager for advice. “Somebody kisses somebody” he says helpfully, and I only hope it’s a long embrace to give me time to get back down the aisle. It isn’t – and I run like made, thinking of complaining to the Director.
And, during the interval, it all starts again. And, just as the lights go down for the second half, somebody is terribly sorry, but could they just have a glass of wine……….?