Confessions of a Box Office Manager: It's rotten when a show closes early

It's a sad sad day, and I have barricaded myself in the back office. No, I'm not having a tantrum… not just yet anyway. What has happened is that, after a couple of weeks of consistently disappointing houses whereby the show hasn't met its running costs, plus little advance to speak of, the producers have decided to pull the plug on our current production. It was a limited run anyway but it will now be finishing six weeks early.

It has fallen to me to contact the patrons who have bookings for performances after the new closing date. It's not a mammoth task – if there were more of them the damn show wouldn't be folding! – but it's at least a solid couple of days work, judging by the computer-generated report I am balefully eyeing on my desk. I did try to tender the job out to the team but my offer was met with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for public transport delays, or contagious diseases. So, it's just me, a desk, a computer, the report, a phone, and the biggest latte I could get my hands on. I think I'm a bit of a pushover sometimes… whatever happened to pulling rank?! Or Customer Service departments, for that matter?!

It is important when calling these patrons to try to put a positive spin on it (this is actually a very good play with a superb cast, it just failed to find the audience it needed and indeed deserved), and attempt to get them to exchange their tickets for a performance before the new closing date rather than just refunding. Of course, in the case of tourists from out-of-town or people booking for a specific special occasion the exchange option is not always possible and then I will refund the monies to their credit or debit cards.

First call I make is an example of the latter and she's not taking it lying down:

"You people! You're all BASTARDS!" she shrieks, in a pitch so high that every canine north of the M25 is most likely going apoplectic (this disappointed customer is in Hartlepool, so she's hardly local which, given the alarming direction this conversation is already going in, is probably just as well). "You think everyone lives in bloody London! You don't realise the planning that has gone into this trip! I've booked a hotel! I've arranged to put my mother into a kennel, and the dog to be looked after by friends!" (I'm assuming/hoping she has got those the wrong way round but am too cowardly to ask.) "I want compensation! I'm not happy about this at all!" (Like I hadn't noticed.)

When I finally get a word in, I manage to give her the address of both the theatre's general manager and the producers of the play, so she can direct her ire at them. I sympathise with her of course but realistically my responsibility does stop at the ticketing arrangements, and it's far too early in the day to put up with being called a bastard. After 3pm it's absolutely fine, but before 11am in the morning? I think not.

Next up is a distracted house husband who is trying to process what I'm telling him whilst separating a pair of warring toddlers ("Tamsin! Do NOT eat George's hair! YUCKY!"), controlling a rambunctious-sounding mutt ("will one of you PLEASE get that bubble wrap off him! NO! Don't pull it like that! He thinks you're playing now, look!"), checking his diary to find a new performance date ("what month are we in again?"), all to a deafening soundtrack of childish squeals, doggy growls and an industrial strength tumble dryer in full spin. He agrees to ring me back when he has a minute. I'm not holding my breath.

My third call is a much easier affair. A jolly sounding woman is over the moon that our little show is coming to a premature ending.

"Thank Christ" she trills, "it was the boyfriend's idea. He loves anything dreary. Yeah babes, refund the money back to the card, and I'll book us into Mamma Mia!. Much more fun!"

The next couple of calls are to regular theatregoers who are genuinely mystified as to why the play is closing, given the outstanding reviews they've been reading. They all manage to find dates within the next six weeks when they can attend to see it for themselves. Lovely work.

Here comes a tricky one: a pair was sold over the window for what is now the Saturday after closure, and the staff member who made the booking only took a name and a contact number, which is standard practise; unfortunately though, the mobile number is coming up as unobtainable when I try and call it. To make matters worse, the customer paid by cash. Had it been a credit card booking we could have contacted the card issuer and asked them to leave a message at least. As it stands, the only thing we can do is hope that the customer reads about the closure somewhere and gets in touch with us. Otherwise it will be an awkward situation whereby they turn up on the night expecting to see the show and instead find a locked up auditorium and yours truly (and/or the original booking clerk, if I'm feeling vindictive… which hardly ever happens… hardly ever…) staring balefully at them from behind the Box Office glass with a cash-filled envelope and a Taser (just in case.)

Seriously though, it's rotten when this happens as it really does mean that the patron has had a wasted trip and they justifiably feel angry and disappointed. This is why we ask for phone numbers at time of booking and not, as some suspicious customers would seem to have it, because we want to a) ring you up at dead of night and flog you something useless, or b) ask you out on a date. Even if the latter were the case, you would never know: we are professionals.

By the time I get out on my lunch break I have succeeded in persuading about half of the patrons contacted so far that they NEED to see this play and to bring their dates forward. Most of the rest have required refunds, while a couple have ranted, raved and rung off with the ominous words "I'll be in touch." Not the most life-enhancing morning at work but, hey, nobody died.