Emerging from Cafe Koha and turning down the lane one recent Saturday evening, I chance on a sight I’ve never witnessed before in the West End: a part of theatre so perfect and unsung which happens all over the country every week.
I know it’s going on, it’s just that usually I don’t get to watch. And I’ve never seen the Get Out from the outside.
There was even for me, even knowing what I know about the money, time and experience going into the process – something magical and wonderful about seeing in to the unpainted face of theatre on a Saturday night at midnight.
A team of unsung, unheard technicians taking the set to pieces through a relatively tiny space and then packing it into a lorry having carried it round three, I counted, three narrow corners. No fuss, no noise, no waking the neighbours.
Hats off to the designer and production manager who make that possible. And there I was for a moment. A little bit happy from the sherbet. I wanted a photo but because (seeing as I kinda do this stuff for a living) I thought I shouldn’t be marvelling at this routine moment, and because the guys must get enough hassle from fools giving them grief, I shimmied on by and let the moment pass.