This would have been a review on my other blog, Stagey Lady. About the extraordinary new musical, Standing at the Sky’s Edge, which has the eloquence , structure and score to rival anything we’ve seen since Hamilton. Only it’s set in Sheffield and, instead of American history, provides a stunning social documentary of our times, three generations living inter-twiningly in a brutalist block of flats. It’s full of love and hope and despair, phenomenal musicianship , great voices , and – newly opened at the structurally ideal Gillian Lynne Theatre – an ambitious and truly brilliant set.
But instead I’m writing about a night in a small hotel on the outskirts of Stevenage, thanks to the decaying infrastructure of our rail network. Stop believing we can be cosmopolitan enough to pop down to London for the day to see a matinee. Our musical theatre heritage is still world class but our railways would disgrace the third world.
A signal failure caused the cancellation of just about every train north from Kings Cross for half a day. That’s people wanting to get to Edinburgh, Doncaster, Newcastle, York and all stations north of Peterborough. What happened to the great days of the empire when every putative signalman could happily message in semaphore, I mused, hours later in Stevenage.
But halt, we need to rewind to Kings Cross where royalty and serfs alike were staring , patient and bemused, at the electronic notice board. It wasn’t a riot or carnage as it should have been if we weren’t British.
In the optimistic belief that some trains might be moving eventually passengers headed to the bar and it was here I met three delightful people whose names I can’t remember but whose life stories were glorious. I adore chance encounters !
It was suggested that we should travel as far as Peterborough as it was clear from the conversations overheard around us that all hotels in the vicinity of Kings Cross were already full… or quadrupling their prices in glee. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of us were stranded.
So on the train .. yes, it moved… one of my new angel friends started to seek a hotel for me; she knew the area, lived near there. All were full. Then another passenger, in the collaborative spirit , said maybe I should get off earlier , at Stevenage , where there were several hotels near the station.
Which I did. And they were all full. Two Holiday Inns, a Premier Inn and a closed Ibis. I’d walked past a homeless guy so often near the underpass that I started to envy his comfort. Hmm. There but for the grace of a credit card go I ? A kind taxi driver took me to outliers, all similarly full with refugees. It wasn’t an adventure any more. I was tired , hungry and close to tears.
Back in York my beautiful Burnips came to the rescue , scouring booking.com while my taxi fare rose. T’internet to the rescue ( I was low on battery) they reserved me a room at a quaint roadside place from which I’ll need another taxi in the morning. And with hope that trains might be running by then.
Miraculously I found a toothbrush in my handbag. No clean knickers , of course, but far worse , no moisturiser. A lesson for the future. I do hope my friend Annie isn’t reading this because I’ve convinced her that a West End matinee is a doddle, and we’re coming down for Hadestown next month. Better prepared, obviously.
A final thought. Does Stevenage have a parkrun ? I’ll be so cross if it does ; this mishap would be perfect opportunism on a Friday night.
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