Stop, who goes there

'Right, pay attention. There's a lot to get through. Quiet. QUIET'.

We were all sitting blink blinking in readiness for our pre performance brief. A bit like those detective
programmes on telly. A Touch of Frost kind of thing.

Blondie was our front of house duty manager. A sold out Saturday evening Warhorse performance. A complete sell out for the whole run. And rightly so.

Oh dear. Warhorse. Run. I didn't mean to do that. Forgive me.

'Now. I'll go through everyone's position', bla bla, stalls, bla bla circle, Denise, courtyard.

'Does everyone know their particular duties. Yes? Good. Let's press on. This show won't start itself. Denise. Come with me. Need to go through a few things. Most important, is a hi viz jacket'.

Pardon?

I'd heard wrong. Surely.

What about a younger, fit lad? I'm much too precious a member of staff to be shunted oot by themselves in the pitch black, icy cold wind, standing for hours all alone in the pissin' rain, clipboard and sharpened pencil, ticking off the cars booked into disabled parking area? I'd rather stick pins in my carefully executed, mascara'd eyes. No chance.

Blondie was running through the job description as we hurriedly headed out to the courtyard. It's an entrance just off the front of our huge theatre. You would have to know where it was, as it's quite discreet so the jaikies don't abuse the space. At night, the high gates lock the intruders out.

In actual fact, it was twenty minutes or so, waiting inside until a vehicle appeared on our security screen. Calm yourself, missy.

Back to Blondie and me.

She'd been looking into how to best manage the eight wheelchair spaces we have, and come up with a brilliant idea of 'Courtyard Steward'. Basically a fucking parking attentant, there on alert at all times to raise and drop the bollard if their registration number is on my list. And if it ain't, your no gettin' in.

There's a few different folk who manage Stage Door. Everyone has to sign in and out. All staff, stars and actors. Duncan was on duty, and l like him a lot. He's calm and been working there for years. Same as me. His responsiblity is to ensure no nutters get past this door. Many have tried. Especially the Daniel O Donnel badge wearers, but that's another story.

Blondie told me to come back to foyer and help bars set up for the interval at curtain up. 7.30pm.

We'd been standing outside in the freezing cold, running through the whatjama call it. Agenda.

I had a question.

'Do l HAVE to wear that neon plastic sleeveless garment', l whined.

'Denise. Yes. You do. If you want to work here. Now l have to get on'.

Blondie dashed off, walkie talky radio in hand, crackling out bits of information. Toilet blocked in men's cubicle on level four. Change needed in cafe. Not enough bottles of water at sweetie counter. Replies and requests from all over the two thousand seater Edinburgh theatre.

I had no idea what fuckin' time it was. Not a scooby. We're not allowed phones on duty, incase we go on that Twitface. One or two numpties always have to ruin things for the rest of us, eh. No one has a watch these days.

I walked back to stage door.

'Why is a female working courtyard duty? That's stupid. Anyone can cut through, and it's cold an' dark. You got a radio to hand, Denise?'

Aye, and its making the pocket of my Moschino coat aw bulging, but l'm carrying this clip board and pen, reading through the list.

'Remember this, Dee'.

God. I thought l'd got away with it, too.

'Do l HAVE to, Dunk. Wear that thing'.

Courtyard duty is all very commendable. All fabulously helpful and 'makes wheelchair users have potentially easier access to their seats'.

Aye.

Fine

I can chat to the wheelchair user while the carer takes the wheelchair out the vehicle. I'm good at customer service. No worries there.

We're allowed to wear our own coat. Wow. It's that or a fleece. It says so (in brackets) on the printed A4 laminate.

You also see famous folk coming in and out for a fag.

But a fuckin' hi viz jacket? Please, no.

Someone might see me.

Actually, who would care?

I care, that's who.

I'm a clothes horse, famous for my sense of style. I am. Honestly. And this was torture for the vanitied.

'Denise. Put it on. It's a must'.

Okay. OKAY.

Headlights.

Oh, bollards, here we go ..