Confessions of a Box Office Manager: sick day

I shouldn't be here today. This is not a hangover, ok? This is an assassination attempt. By a well known West End brasserie.

To keep it brief (it will have to be… I've another date with the toilet in a couple of seconds), I was off yesterday and met a friend for a lunch at aforementioned restaurant: wine was drunk (we were going for an authentically French experience…) but then, and this is significant, a shellfish platter was consumed. To clarify: I ate the shellfish not the platter itself.

I might have been better off eating the platter actually as I woke up heaving at around 3am and have seldom been away from the bathroom since. Calling in sick was not an option as we have two staff members on holiday, and furthermore our general manager is a Facebook friend of my fellow lunch victim, and may well have seen the misguided selfies she posted of the pair of us waving wine glasses around, full of bon humeur, mince pies and Chenin blanc. And salmonella, as it turns out.

So here I am, sweating profusely and with an epidermis the colour of wet concrete. I'd fire off an email of complaint to the restaurant except that every time I try to describe what I ate, the rumbling "down there" starts again and everything goes out of focus. This will be a long morning on the window but I am being kept going by the thought that I have a colleague coming in at 2 and then I can find a quiet corner of the theatre to go lie down and die in (I normally choose one of the boxes but I think they have understudy rehearsals on stage today, damn them).

The deep breathing appears to be working – I've stopped silently praying for death anyway – when the door swings open and a lady strides purposefully towards the box office. Just at that point, an uncontrollable wave of nausea breaks over me and I get an overwhelming urge to christen the waste paper bin I've had clamped between my legs for the last hour "just in case". There's nothing for it but to bid my new customer a wan "hello, just give me a moment please" and disappear vertically from view.

Luckily the sound of my barely suppressed heaving is covered up by the staccato sound of this lady's voice; she is clearly so used to being served immediately wherever she goes that she hasn't even registered that I am not currently present:

"Good day to YOU. I am planning to bring my husband to see this as part of his birthday present. I need two of your very best stalls or dress circle for the first Saturday in January. Evening performance please, unless you have absolutely SPECTACULAR seats for the matinee. Cost really is no issue under these circumstances but location is of the utmost importance. My husband is six foot eight so requires an aisle seat for the leg room. I, on the other hand prefer… Hello?… HELLO? Are you THERE??"

"Hello" I manage, in between heaves, trying not to sound like I'm coming from the bottom of a bog. "I'll" (gulp) "be with" (gulp) "you in" (gulp) "justamoment" (dear God, will it ever stop?!).

After what feels like about an hour of gazing over the top of the bin at two mousetraps, a bit of old tinsel and a couple of discarded pen lids, I decide the crisis has been averted, or at least delayed, and I haul myself back into a sitting position with as much dignity as possible (i.e. not very much).

"I am so sorry," I mumble, "I just dropped something on the floor and it was very important" (WHAT?!)

"I see, well, er, I'm not sure how much of that you heard but what I would like is… are you sure you're alright?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine" I croak, with a mirthless laugh, "just a bit of a tummy bug, you know."

She takes a few steps back – I can't say I blame her – and repeats her earlier speech only louder and slower, as though dealing with an unintelligent deaf person for whom English is not a first language.

Finally she gets her tickets and departs with a genuine "you take care of yourself" that, in my fragile state, almost reduces me to tears. I am absolutely exhausted. Then I get a text message. It's from the clerk due in at 2:

"Hey! Hope you're good!" it says, rather too cheerfully for my liking. "I'm slightly hungover so was wondering if I could come in a bit later today and make the time up later in the week?" Then there's a smiley face with the tongue hanging out… I am too forlorn to even be angry.

"Thanks for your message" I text back, "DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!!" (no smiley face here)

"Ah OK. I'm on my way. :-/" comes the reply.

I'm just putting my phone back into my pocket when the door to the street reopens heralding the return of my last customer. Luckily she is smiling…

"I'm sorry to bother you again" she trills "but you've sold me tickets for the wrong date! Hilarious!"

I grimace amiably and set about exchanging to seats for the correct performance for her. I told you I shouldn't be in here today. I feel like the Grinch; I'm certainly a similar colour to him. But hey……nobody died.