Audiences are funny things - our play's been ticking along quite nicely, with audiences building gently towards 30 (which ain't shabby for the fringe), and then suddenly on Saturday night... six.
Luckily, they were a nice six and laughed loads, but still... six. This isn't the worst - everyone in our venue's still talking about the cast who played their hearts out to an audience of one... until halfway through, when he stood up and walked out. In dark moments, I try and imagine the looks on everyone's faces - did he meet their eyes as he left? Did they plead silently for him to stay? Did they carry on the play after he left? Or did they wait till he was out of earshot and then quietly peter out?
Last night, we had 36, which was enormously reassuring. Including, wonderfully, the staff of James Bond magazine (which, rather marvellously appears to be called Kiss Kiss Bang Bang). I now possess a picture of the magazine's editor standing outside the Pinewood water tank, and, more valuably, the reassurance that my show is factually accurate.
I'm falling in love with our audiences. If I had my way, I'd invite my favourite audience members back at the end - I rather think they'd like each other. They'd include the sweet lesbian couple who laughed like drains, the giggling film students, and the drunk girl with pink hair who suddenly shouted out "Fucking hell! I'd forgotten about the bagpipes!".