Confessions of a Box Office Manager – Sometimes, there are no words

"I would say that the best place to be is in the front Stalls," I offer.

"Oh no, we definitely want seats."

I check her face to see if she's joking. She isn't. Ok, this is going to be fun.

I do my best goldfish impression for a couple of seconds – because I literally don't know what to say – and am just about to respond when she hits me with: "So, with these 'restricted view' seats…" (and yes she really does do the 'air quotes') " …what, so like you can't see ANYTHING, or what? Is it?"

This is followed by peals of derisive laughter (from her, not me – that would be rude.)

"Well yes, you can see most of the show, it's just that there are a few moments when the action will be obscured by a pillar, hence the…"

"A PILLAR??!! Oh no, forget it."

"Right, ok, well the cheapest clear view seats are here in the Upper Circle," I say, indicating the plan on the counter.

"Oh God no, I'm not sitting back THERE! That's miles away!"

I am about to point out that, no, the Upper is on top of the Dress which comes in over the Stalls, and it only looks a long way back on the plan because, well, we had to set the plan out somehow didn't we… but she has wandered off, preferring to read the back of the leaflet than actually talk to me. Which is fine, funnily enough.

Not everybody who comes in to buy tickets is necessarily theatre savvy, therefore requiring a bit more guidance, and it is often a really rewarding part of the job to help West End neophytes to get the best seats at the best price. For example, American customers on a first trip to the UK frequently don't realise that their Mezzanine is our Dress Circle, their Orchestra is our Stalls, and so on.

This lady, however, has Attitude. She Knows Her Own Mind… And she's back.

"Boxes!" she bellows, "they're those things on the side, isn't it?"

"Yes it is. I mean, yes they are."

"Right, I'll have one."

"When for?"

"I have to pick a DATE?!"

"I'm afraid so."

Rolling her eyes, she looks at the back of the leaflet again.

"Ok, gimme a box for the signed performance on 27th July."

"Can I just ask how many people you're actually bringing?"

"Six."

"Oh I'm sorry. The boxes only seat four."

"Well, the kids are only six and eight, so they can sit on our laps."

"I'm afraid that everybody entering the theatre needs to have their own ticket."

"But that's ridiculous," she snaps.

"Well…."

"And anyway, with this signed performance, will everybody be signing? Even the stars??"

"I'm sorry," I answer, "I'm not sure I'm with you?"

Clearly judging me to be even more of an idiot than I actually am, she comes right up close: "WILL ALL THE STARS BE SIGNING AUTOGRAPHS AT THIS PERFORMANCE??" she enquires… loudly.

I have a quick glance around the foyer – or what I can see of it from behind the lacquered mane currently filling my window – to see if I can spot the Candid Camera. Nope, nothing.

"Actually," I say, trying to sound reasonable and also attempting to keep hysteria at bay, "a signed performance means that it is interpreted in British Sign Language for the benefit of our hearing impaired patrons. Does that apply to any of your guests?"

She recoils as though I've spat at her. "Certainly not! And I must say, I don't like your attitude."

And with that she's gone, swinging the door into the street so hard that she almost knocks out a pair of senior citizens trying to gain entry.

"You're welcome…!" I call after her, weakly.

As I watch the door flapping in the wind, and the two pensioners steadying themselves against the leaflet rack, I reflect that I possibly could have handled that better. Then again, she could have come in without giving the impression that she was going into battle.

But hey, nobody died.

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