Confessions of a Box Office Manager: When the lights go out

Is there anybody there?

Hellooooo?

Come closer to the light….(such as it is).

Identify yourself.

This was such a bad day to wear all black.

Picture it: out there it’s only early afternoon – but what a dark, damp, moody, wintery afternoon it is. Pedestrians scurry past, windswept and rain-lashed, theatregoers and tourists rush for the shelter of our canopy and hunker down, waiting in vain for the pelting torrents to stop, while others stagger through the creaking doors, searching for warmth, comfort, matinee escapism, forlornly shaking skeletal brollies turned inside out by the elemental tempests.

Yeah, now here’s the thing – though I’m not telling the patrons this, well not yet anyway – but there may not even be a matinee of our dazzling extravaganza for them to lose themselves in today. Furthermore, it’s even darker in here than it is out there. Yup, we are suffering from a power outage, so the foyer is currently lit by just a couple of emergency lamps, while the box office, set so far back from the entrance that no natural light reaches us even in high summer, is illuminated solely by the glow of computer screens (they run on a different grid from the lighting apparently, according to our chief LX, and to be fair, he should know). The only other light comes from our various mobile phones (and no, I do not condone the use of devices on the window but under these circumstances, they are essential just to see the damn names on the credit cards.) The temperature is plummeting too, which leads me to believe that the heating is on the same grid as the lighting (see how quickly I pick things up?)

What this means is that we are working in the dark, in the freezing cold, trying to present a professional, upbeat front to patrons collecting or buying tickets to a performance that may not even happen. I’ve briefed the staff to keep behaving as though things are normal-ish ('The Show Must Go On' and all that) but just to explain that there is a minor power issue in case anybody asks, and to tell agency customers not to discard their paperwork for the time being. What is surprising, not to say downright baffling, is that not a single patron has said a word about the darkness to myself or any of the clerks on duty: they’re all carrying on as though a theatre foyer that looks like a graveyard on a gloomy night, inhabited by a team of shivering waifs staring ghost-like into brightly lit screens, is perfectly normal. The only thing I did hear was one jolly American lady remarking "Gaaaaaad, I just adore these old West End theatres, they’re just so, like… atmospheric, ya know?" to her companion as she sashayed away from the box office.

Meanwhile, I’ve been fumbling about at the back, using the torch on my iPhone trying to find the "cancelled performance" template on my computer. This form is the one that we hand out to all ticket holders detailing how they go about getting their money back or exchanging to a different performance. I hope you never have to get one. I’ve also been checking how much cash is in the safe with a view to immediately refunding any customers who’ve paid with ready money: we don’t have anywhere near enough. I can count on one hand the number of cancelled performances I’ve worked on but they are not fun. For anybody.

I’ve also spoken to the clerks on the window to remind them that, because the rest of the office has been plunged into darkness, they need to be extra careful about not tutting/rolling eyes/flaring nostrils when confronted with a particularly difficult or clueless customer; their faces are effectively spotlit by their screens, and excessive 'facial leakage' – a term I really don’t get to use often enough – could end up causing a major diplomatic incident. Things are tense enough as it is.

Meanwhile, over the walkie-talkie I can hear the LX team chatting to each other within the auditorium as they carry out a series of tests to see if the electrics to make the performance work are still functioning safely. Normally they are laughing and joking over the airwaves but today they are being ominously sensible and civil. A show cancellation would prove extremely expensive as today is almost sold out, being a Saturday matinee during one of the busiest times of the year. Of course the safety of our audience has to come first, although try explaining that to disappointed patrons who have travelled a long way to get here, and at great expense. It’s a tricky situation, to say the least.

Another byproduct of poor visibility is that we can’t show prospective ticket buyers where their seats are located on the counter-top plan. Clearly a creature of habit, Maureen – our senior staff member both in terms of age and length of service – is still gamely pointing out the seats with her trusty biro despite the fact that the plan is completely invisible without a torch. Most customers, bless them, still glance cursorily at where she’s indicating and say things like "yes, those will do nicely" or "that is on an aisle isn’t it?" before whipping out their credit cards.

The most eccentric exchange I’ve heard so far was between Maureen and a somewhat impatient lady who already had tickets to the show:

"I’ve got my tickets but I need you to tell me about my seats" she enquired, brusquely.

"Of course I will. What are your seat numbers, Madam?"

"They’re Dress Circle, C 18 and 19" she snapped back, testily.

"OK… so… they’re in the DRESS Circle, ROW CEEEEEEE, seats EIGHTEEEN and NINETEEEEEN. How’s that, my love?"

There’s a pause while the lady mulls over the piece of non-information she has just been given, and I brace myself for a mini-row, but no:

"Thanks so much, you’ve been very helpful" she trills and sweeps off, apparently satisfied at having had her seat details repeated back at her very slowly. Ah well, glad she’s happy.

As I said before, my decision to wear an all-black ensemble to work today (it’s incredibly stylish but you’ll have to take my word for that as you can’t see me) turned out to be a bad one, given the lighting situation. There is, I admit, a certain amount of comedy value to be had from lurking unseen behind the clerks, then leaning forward unexpectedly to advise customers on seating choices and watching them leap a couple of feet in the air with shock. I feel like a showbizzy Nosferatü.

I am just about to scare the bejaysus out of a particularly demanding would-be patron when the phone rings, sounding more obnoxiously loud in the dark than it normally does. It’s the house manager.

"How are things at the coal face?" he says, sounding pleased with himself (he always sounds pleased with himself actually, it’s not at all endearing).

"Cold and dark. Now what’s happening?"

"Well, there’s good news and there’s bad. Which would you like first?"

"Good please, and this had better really be good…"

"The show is going ahead. The auditorium and stage systems are working fine."

Phew, well that is a pretty big relief actually.

"Ah, that’s great. So what’s the bad news?"

"I don’t think the foyer lighting will be back until after the matinee has gone up. Sorry."

And with that he hangs up. Not even a goodbye. Charming.

I go back to the front window and discreetly murmur to each of the staff members that the show is a go. I decide not to tell them we could still have another couple of hours of sitting in sepulchral gloom. It’ll hopefully be a nice surprise for them when the lights blaze back on.

Maureen is still pointing away at the seating plan as though patrons can see it. Finally, somebody snaps. It had to happen I guess:

"There’s no point trying to show me where I’m sitting on that thing, I can’t see it" the customer bellows.

"Pardon me?"

"I haven’t got my varifocals on."

Oh, so the darkness not an issue for him then. Jolly good. Still, the customers will be getting the show that they’ve paid for, and we won’t be on the receiving end of flak. Well, actually, we probably will – it’s a November Saturday and the West End is ridiculously busy, so many of them are in high dudgeon before they even come through the doors – but at least it won’t be because the performance is cancelled. And hey… nobody died.