Meanwhile, at the theatre…

Excuse me; you’re in my seat.”

“No, I’m not.”

Yes, you are. P13.  That’s what it says on my ticket.  Do you see?

“This is Q, mate.”


“This is row Q.  You’re in the wrong row.”

My apologies.”

“Daft old bat.”

Excuse me; you’re in my seat.”

No, I ain’t.”


This is R.”



Then where’s P?”

Don’t know, don’t care.  Now, piss off and let me watch the show.”

“Is there a problem here?”

Ah, yes; I’m looking for my seat.”

“What number is it?”

It’s P13.”

“Have you got your ticket?”



There, do you see? P13.”

“Yes, sir.  But this ticket is for the Royal Theatre.  This is the Theatre Royal.”

And there’s a difference?

“Yes, sir.  We’ve got The Cherry Orchard.  You want Hot Babes on Ice.”

Oh.  I see.  Oh, well.  Seeing as I’m here, I may as well watch to the end.”

Then last year, when the villa had to be sold to pay my debts, I left for Paris where he robbed me, deserted me and took up with another woman. I tried to poison myself. It was all so stupid and humiliating. Then I suddenly longed to be back in Russia, back in my own country with my little girl…


“Right, you:  Out!”




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Filed under Script, Short story

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