Support for the Arts

I was working in the Waterfront one Christmas. I was in the cloak-room, which was a pretty cushy number as there is a big rush at the beginning of the evening and big rush at the end and bugger all to do in the intervening four or five hours. I actually got a bit of writing done.

Halfway through the evening a bloke staggered up to the counter, patting himself down for his ticket. I knew him, though not well; he ran a festival of some description and we had mutual friends. I'd also interviewed him once. He wobbled up, ticket in hand.

"Can I have my coat please, mate?"

"No problem, sir." I went off to get the coat. On my return he said: "Do I know you?"

"Yes," I said, "we have met."

"Didn't you used to work in the theater?" he said, squinting at me, suspiciously.

"Yes," I said.

"What are you doing here then?" he said.

"Well," I said, "I work in the theater but I also like to eat occasionally!"

"What do you mean?" he said.

"The theatre," I said, "I write plays. It doesn't pay very well."

"Oh," he dragged his coat over the counter and put it on with the exaggerated care of the thoroughly inebriated. He shuffled off, stopped, turned on his heel and approached the counter again like Columbo remembering his one more thing. He grinned at me.

"Going well is it, mate?" And with a bark of laughter he trotted off into the night. 

I went back to my coats.