Confessions of a Box Office Manager – Kidding around

Pantomime season is upon us again. Blimey, that came around quickly! Wait, why is it 33 degrees and everybody is in shorts and sundresses?

Ah yes, that's right, it's the summer holidays and the management, in an attempt to offset the astronomical costs of running a prime West End theatre, has brought in a children's show for daytime performances. This is in addition to our regular eight-shows-a-week offering (a racy drama with poster to match, the sight of which bewilders many of the harassed parents who've dragged their offspring across town for a live audience with their favourite characters from the telly).

I have lost track of the number of times today I have been asked "am I in the right place?" by weary yummy mummies with a child hanging off every limb, as well as one strapped to the back and at least one more dozing or screaming in an adjacent pushchair. Frankly, I admire them for even managing to get out of the house.

Working on these child-centric entertainments is a little different from selling for regular shows. For a start, we have to open an hour earlier (another thing I've lost count of lately is the number of times I've heard staff members grumbling "if I'd wanted to be in work this early I'd have got a job that paid me real money"); then there's the fact the first performance of the day starts at 10.30am, a time when normally we would be half way through the agency markback for that night's show (or the Guardian crossword, if you're working on a flop, or you're a bit lazy).

But no, for us it's all hands to the metaphorical pump; handing out tickets, answering questions about lavatorial facilities, asking parents to collapse their buggies before heading in, pointing out that they would be able to see their seat locations on the plan if they would just move their precious angel's backside off it (every flat surface seems to be fair game as a temporary dumping ground for six-month-olds). Plus we receive more exhortations from patrons to "hold that!" than at any other time in our working lives, "that" being anything from a can of soft drink to a mobile phone, or a baby bottle, a packet of wet wipes, an actual baby (no really, that did happen) or anything else that encumbers them as they rummage in outsize bags for their tickets, credit cards, IDs etc.

One exhausted looking mother is arguing ferociously with one of the clerks and I am forced to intervene. "How can I help here?" I ask, trying not to gag at the sight of the mashed up rusk her beaming, but undeniably cute, offspring is trying to hand me from the pushchair.

"I've bought three tickets but now I'm being told we can't all go in! He's only two!" she screeches with a manic gleam in her eye that suggests extreme caffeine abuse (that's another thing that's different about working on a kids' show – a lot of the adult customers are borderline insane, due to the fact that they have barely slept in at least six months. It can get tricky.)

"But there are four of you," I say, as gently as possible given that the volume level in the foyer would currently make the ground floor at Hamleys in the run up to Christmas sound like a public library, "and everybody needs to have a ticket."

"But he is only two!" she repeats manically, "and he will be on my lap anyway!"

"I appreciate that, but licensing laws dictate that every customer needs to have a ticket. Also, this show is aimed at children from 18 months to five years old, so it would be pointless putting it on and admitting the core audience for free, WOULDN'T IT?!" (this would sound so much more rational and less aggressive if I wasn't having to bellow it at her at the top of my lungs, but needs must…)

She thinks about this for a moment and narrows her eyes.

"Do you feel good about yourself?" she cries. I don't have time to consider this important (to me) issue before she produces a ten pound note from her pocket and smacks it on the counter. "One more ticket then! CHILD RATE!"

The force with which she slammed down the money has made the little rusk-waver in the pushchair start crying with shock. I resist the urge to join in wholeheartedly. Tickets in hand she backs away, still eyeing me furiously, and wheels straight into an oncoming buggy. Cue more screaming, from both parents and little'uns.

We have another 15 minutes of this before the show starts, and then we'll do it all over again in two hours. Then three times tomorrow… But hey, nobody died.

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