Server

'The name's Kohler', she says. I dearly want to ask her something about diets but, since  I am working today I feel it would not behove my recently elevated position.  I do, however, venture to enquire if the name is spelt with a 'C', which draws an exasperated in-breath from her as she tuts and just replies with, 'no, it's a K.'  

She disappears tickets in hand and no thanks and have a nice day as she leaves. My colleagues and I simply press on. It's an absolutely fantastically busy evening and we only have another 5 hours to go until the end of the enterprise.  It's good to be gainfully employed I suppose to myself, when the festival director - again, I only know this because he tersely informed me of his exhalted status when he came in an hour ago looking for tickets and I asked him for ID - rushes through, shoulder barges some posho or other out of the way, and demands I seat Mrs Blahdeblah and Mr Blungdungo next to one another, how dare we give them seats five apart on the comps list, don't we know they collaborated together on that 'Forcing a March Hare through a Mangle' piece back in 1973?'  I smile calmly and reassure him that we have a couple of really nice donation seats from a boy and his mother who decided they would rather have pudding in the restaurant across the road than come along after all, and hand them to him with as much warmth and bonhomie as I can plaster on.

The rain outside begins to fall and the waiting crowds shuffle and barge ever further in, the automatic door trying to cut off couples like knifing through the links in sausages. If they're lucky the downpour will have ceased by the time they've listened to five hours of SHOUTING TO MUSIC. My colleagues and I are out of here sooner than that and the prospects do not look promising.

The Front of House Manager sweeps through, serene against the squall. 'Johhhhnnny?' She beams, 'Mr Falunquhar here,' she wraps an arm around the shoulders of a bedraggled man with stained jacket and soup-crusted bow tie who smells like pubs did back in the good ol' days, 'booked a seat in the rafters and didn't realise it was a rope and pulley system to get up there... Have you anything, darling?'  I smile and have a check - 'just one ticket?  He can take the companion seat next to that wheelchair space that's not being used.'  The usher hovering behind her's face falls as he realises he must now sit on the usher's spike at the back, where he'll never see the stage. Opera is dull enough to watch, but to not know what is going on as you listen to it, yet further torture still. 'Thanks, Darling!' They sweep back out and towards the stalls, the gentleman in question leaving only his odour behind.

Nine o'clock approaches and there are fewer than twenty packets still to be collected. One of 'our regulars' comes in.  There is  a note on the system but she is such a frequent visitor that I do not need to look. 'Good evening, Mrs Robinson!'
She simpers, unsure as if she thought she could get away Scot free with a practise she has repeated weekly for nine whole years. 

'Oh... hi... I was wondering?...'

'You can buy full price tickets, Mrs Robinson. Unless, that is, you have evidence that you are claiming Job Seeker's.' She does not, she parks her brand new Tesla round the corner every time she comes and just pays the parking fine for illegal parking. 

'Oh!' She was unaware of our procedures, apparently. 'I, um, I suppose I'll just have whatever's cheapest then.'  she pays and takes her tickets.  When she's stepped back out for a St Moritz menthol I radio the commisionaire so he can return her to the gods when she tries to upgrade herself to the Dress Circle come the interval.

Closing time arrives. Bryony cashes up her float first and I let her away before I close the security gate so she doesn't have to sign out at stage door.  Her girlfriend's been waiting outside for twenty minutes, subtly.  They walk away holding hands as the sky lightens slightly revealing a last hint of blue as Sun sets somewhere to the West.

I lock up and consider briefly popping my head in. 

I don't, I'm not mad. I just work here.