Confessions of a Box Office Manager: A couple of unwelcome visitors
Right there! Quick as a lightning flash it goes, from the skirting board at the rear of the box office across to the space underneath the counter I'm sitting at, valiantly trying to do justice to a breakfast bap which I now hurl half-eaten into the bin, appetite entirely evaporated.
I resist an unmanly urge to scream like a big girl's blouse – there's an electrician half way up a ladder fiddling with the foyer chandelier and there's no way I'm going to look like a wuss in front of him, plus it could be dangerous. So instead I stomp around the box office as loudly as possible and pick up my bag from the floor and place it on a neighbouring chair. The last thing I want is the little bleeder getting in there and making itself comfortable in the midst of my sweaty gym gear.
Yes the mice are back. We've been mouse-free for a couple of months now, since the last visit of the pest controllers, or at least there haven't been any sightings – I am a great believer in the phrase "ignorance is bliss" – but of course realistically in an old Edwardian/Victorian (one day I'll get round to reading the theatre's history in the programme, I really will) building in the middle of the West End we aren't going to be devoid of unwanted visitors for long.
At least this isn't coming as a complete surprise this time round. I was off yesterday but was revolted to find pictures posted on Facebook last night by our most animal-friendly staff member, of a mouse sitting on his shoe, and another of one next to the actual computer 'mouse' on the box office counter. He had captioned that particular photograph "MICE!", and it took all my strength not to post the reply "FIRED!" underneath. Seriously though, these little guys seem pretty fearless, and while I wish them no harm per se, we wouldn't want another instance of a lady finding one in her handbag while in the stalls bar. While we always want our patrons to find their visits here to be surprising and memorable, that isn't really what we had in mind.
I ring the manager's office. The phone is answered by the inappropriately named Marvel – she's here doing work experience but so far has failed to grasp the 'work' aspect of the whole 'experience', but I digress – and she's chewing gum like it's about to be taken away from her.
"Yello?" she manages, in between chomps.
"Oh hi Marvel," I answer, holding the phone as far away from my ear as I can manage, "are any of the managers in?"
"I dunno." (Chomp.)
"Well, er, you're in the manager's office aren't you?"
"Oh yeah." (She is now giggling and chewing simultaneously, which isn't irritating in the least.) "Hang on."
The house manager comes on the line: "Hi love, how's life in the box?"
"Hello. Well, I'm afraid it looks like the mice are back."
"Bugger it. It's really happening again then. The stalls usher last night said she'd seen some movement on the floor during the second half but I thought it was her meds."
"I'm afraid not. The only meds I'm on is very strong coffee and I've had a couple of sightings this morning already."
"Alrighty. I'll call the pest people. Thanks for letting me know. Try not to be screaming in front of the punters."
I do my best mirthless laugh and ring off.
Meanwhile, outside the box office, something rather peculiar is afoot. Sam the electrician has stepped down from his ladder and is shaking his head while gazing up at the chandelier, which is making an irregular jangling noise, while the crystals in the central section appear to be moving by themselves.
"Sam! What the hell is going on?" I call across the foyer.
He turns to me and grins: "there's a mouse in there. It's just running round and round in a panic, the poor little blighter."
I am about to respond when the entrance doors open and in sweeps a smartly dressed lady, diary in hand. She stops, gazes up at the commotion in the light fixture, raises an eyebrow askance, and advances upon the box office.
I greet her with a cheery "good morning" as though having a chandelier with an apparent case of Saint Vitus Dance is an everyday occurrence. She seems unfazed.
"And a very good morning to you," she responds crisply, "I'm looking to book a couple of seats for… AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" Oh bloody hell, it had to happen didn't it…a mouse sprints at high speed across the counter top seating plan and disappears from view. It happens so fast that for a split second I think about styling it out and pretending I hadn't noticed. This wouldn't work now anyway as Sam has rushed over with a look of concern.
"Good grief!" exclaims the lady in the foyer, fanning herself with her diary, "did you just see that?"
"Yes, it was a mouse" I splutter.
"Well I didn't think it was a Springer Spaniel!" she cries.
As if roused by the commotion, the rodent trapped in the chandelier appears to double its escape efforts overhead.
"And THAT?" she screeches, staring in alarm at the shaking light fitting.
I shoot Sam a warning look, but too late: "another one I'm afraid", he shrugs.
"Dear GOD! What is happening in this place?!" she gasps.
"We have just contacted pest control" I say, hoping they've made that call from upstairs.
"Right, I see. Well, I will perhaps pop back when you've got your little problem sorted out", and she grabs her handbag, and stumbles past Sam out onto the street.
Ignoring Sam giggling like an idiot on the other side of the glass, I decide to call the manager's office again to chivvy them up and also to warn them in case that lady takes to TripAdvisor to share her unconventional experience here today.
"Yello?" intones marvellous Marvel from the other end of the phone, still chewing maniacally.
"Hello Marvel, can you put Simon on please, the mouse situation has escalated down here." I'm in no mood for niceties, this has to be sorted out. We just lost a sale, the vermin are taking over, I've wasted half my breakfast and the foyer chandelier is jerking about as though it's about to "do a Phantom" at any moment. But, hey, nobody died.
