Stamford Arts Centre afforded me a warm welcome and again I was offered tea as soon as I arrived, suggesting people are reading my blogs and my tweets. But there's no need to offer me tea if there's a kettle and drinks in the dressing room. I am not Mariah Carey. Though perhaps this is how she started her divaesque career.
I also got a jacket potato with chilli from the arts centre cafe. Everywhere is really puttine Hereford to shame.
But despite all this there was no separate toilet for just me to use, so I had to go and do my business in the same facilities as the audience. Do these people know who I am?
Probably not, now I think about it.
There was at least toilet paper. Are you listening Warwick? Are you?
As I sat on the loo a couple of young lads came bustling into the gents, unaware that I was there, or possibly just not interested in the occupants of the cubicle.
I didn't see them, of course, but they sounded like they were around about 14 and were being boisterous and showing off for each other. One of them noticed that there was a second door to the bathroom and wondered where it went to. Perhaps it was like the one in Mr Benn and would lead to adventures, but he didn't make this connection, probably because he didn't know who Mr Benn was. The more excitable one seemed to hope that the extra door might lead into the ladies' toilets, however unlikely it might be that the architect of the building would make such an error. His friend pointed out that it actually just led into the theatre bar and the first lad lied, "Yes, I know. But imagine if it did lead into the ladies'. We could jump in there and surprise them." It was a weak attempt to cover his error and spoke much of the fantasy life of the teenage boy. Because in his heart he knew he would be too scared to do any such thing.
The excitable boy then said, "You don't think I've copied your hair style do you?" The quieter one mumbled in a non-committal fashion. I never saw them so can't tell you if the hairstyles were similar, but obviously the excitable youngster had had this accusation leveled at him by a third party and wanted to make it clear that this was not the case. "I haven't copied you," he protested too much, "I just really fancied a Mohican myself. It was nothing to do with you having one."
Oh what a wonderful exchange to overhear. Part of me wished I could see this Mohican haired youths, but another part of me was delighted that I had to use my imagination. I almost laughed out loud at this boy attempting to pretend that he had come to such an unlikely choice of haircut independently. The reason people were telling him he had copied his friend was because there was clearly no other explanation. Luckily I didn't make a sound. If they had heard me laughing these punk rockers might have kicked down my stall door and given me a pasting whilst I squirmed around with my trousers round my ankles.
The boisterous children had then completed whatever task had brought them into the room and were away, kicking at the door as they left.
I had enjoyed a tiny aural segment of their lives and now they were gone forever. Our paths would probably never cross again. I wonder if it a representative example of their lives as a whole.
