Tracey Curzon-Manners: Second Act for Box Office Girl - Article, 2020
Title
Tracey Curzon-Manners: Second Act for Box Office Girl - Article, 2020
Date
16 April 2020
Description
Article written by Tracey Curzon-Manners, a former member of the Box Office team at the Theatre Royal & Royal Concert Hall Nottingham about her return to the venue to see a production of The Nutcracker in January 2020 and the memories it sparks.
What's the story?
Tracey previously worked at The Royal Opera House before joining the team at the Theatre Royal and Concert Hall in January 1992. In 1995 she took part in a business/community initiative lead by the then venue director, James Ashworth whose aim was to forge partnerships with local schools, a role she found particularly rewarding and engaging.
In 2008, she began writing under the pseudonym, Boxofficegirl, creating a platform to explore her observations of the many colourful characters working in and around the theatre. Recently, she has published through the Nottingham City of Literature and the Nottingham Writer’s Studio, of which she is a member. In 2020, she was delighted to see her work brought to life in story videos by the YouTube channel, Zen Mood.
Tracey is currently working on a book about her journey through speech loss, as well as a collection of poetry, and remains passionate about theatre and the community she feels so fortunate to have worked alongside. They will always have a special place in her heart.
Second Act For Box Office Girl.
‘I can see ballet dancers behind the curtain!’
I look down to where my daughter is pointing at a gauze window in the blackout curtain and sure enough, dancers in full costume are going through their warm-up routines.
We're sitting in the second tier of the Royal Concert Hall in Nottingham, waiting for the matinee of The Nutcracker to begin. I study the lower levels with interest as the rest of the audience gradually files in checking seat numbers against their tickets. Tickets I used to sell for both the Concert Hall and Theatre Royal and probably would still be selling, had it not been for a freak accident several years ago that robbed me of my speech and long term job in the box-office. This is the first time I've felt confident enough to attend a performance.
To the left of the stage, I spy another break in the curtain and more dancers gathering. Behind them, the stage-door access I used on the rare occasion I was early for work and the house-staff hadn’t had a chance to open up the front entrance. I always felt a pinch of pride if a member of the public noticed me entering the building via the stage-door. To them, I might be a performer arriving for rehearsals, rather than a clerk turning up for a shift. I'd nod hello to Dick behind his desk, whose vast wealth of knowledge included, 'finishes 'bout ten’, plus other pearls of wisdom delivered without breaking eye-contact with his newspaper.
A lot has changed in the years since I worked here. There are unfamiliar faces amongst the staff who now wear uniforms, and the box-office, completely re-designed has been extended out to where the cloakroom used to be. Even the entrance to the office has been upgraded and is a far cry from the tatty wooden door I remember using. The foyer looks customer-friendly with hi-tech screens advertising upcoming shows and a counter accessible to all. I turn my attention to the brochure, relieved to find familiar blurb advertising shows Direct from the West End!
'What are those seats over there?’ My daughter gestures to two rows on either side of the stage.
'Box seats'. They're not boxes really, not like they are in the theatre. They're called that because of the position. We usually only sell those for concerts and classical events because the sight-lines aren't that great, except if you want to see close up, or into the orchestra pit.
Or sneak a peek at an artist rehearsing when you're supposed to be working.
The knowledge rolls off my tongue as the house- lights come down, and a ripple of applause announces the arrival of the Conductor. My daughter is immediately smitten as the dancers take to the stage in vibrant costumes, her teenage face mesmerised, as Drosselmeyer presents the Nutcracker toy-soldier to the two children. Clara takes a liking to the toy, holding it high above her head and pirouettes around for stage for the audience to admire. Her revelry is short-lived when the toy is carelessly broken by Fritz but I'm already finding it difficult to concentrate, distracted by sparkly outfits worn by two little girls on the tier below, complete with ballet pumps. Principle dancers of the future, judging by the way their parents are encouraging them to sit up and pay attention. I've served a million like them over the years, the – will my child be able to see? - brigade of well-meaning yummies scouring the seating plan, making sure they are booking the best available for their little darlings.
My time in the box-office began in the early '90s when cigarette breaks were still acceptable, and it wasn't unusual for the back-stage crew to spend long lunches in Lilly Langtry’s. The computers were basic, and we were astonished to learn that soon it might be possible to find an address by postcode alone. Our astonishment turned to disbelief when postal charges were introduced closely followed by admin fees, and a colleague had to explain to a disappointed customer that bfee meant booking-fee, not a buffet. Sadly, he would need to make alternative dining arrangements.
I've missed working here, though my relationship with the box-office was at times a love/hate affair. As with any paid employment, there were days when I couldn't wait to finish work and jump on the bus to get home, especially if we'd been snowed under booking the newly announced panto or the autumn classical subscription season. Who wants to think about Box D in the dress circle for the Christmas Eve matinee in June? Or C22/23 in the choir stalls for nine concerts when you can only offer eight? The punters, apparently – and no, they don't want an alternative because those are the seats they always book! By the time you've escaped the queues, the thrill of coming back in the evening to see a show fades to less than nothing over time. Sitting here now, having paid full price plus an admin fee, I can't help wondering if we ever truly value what we have until it's gone?
Out of all the losses I've had to endure, it's the loss of social interaction and excellent banter that grieves me the most. That and being part of a creative team. I had no idea of how quickly the world could change on the spin of a coin or in my case, a bus-ride home that would alter the course of my life forever. And we can never go back, no matter how much we would wish to, the world still turns with or without our presence. Unlike the theatre, there is no two-minute warning bell, like the one I can hear now for the second act to commence.
Being here today has rekindled a desire to belong again. Perhaps even to regenerate – like the Prince, who is magically transformed from the Nutcracker into his true self. I could have done without the universe giving me a shove, but my speech has returned, albeit in a strange accented kind of way. Attending a performance has brought home how much I've missed being part of the hub and served as a reminder of the life I've yet to discover. The journey back has been hard but, having come full circle, perhaps this is the turning point where I say goodbye to the old and hello to a brave new world.
The energy is palpable as the ballet concludes, and with a final waltz, Clara glides away to her happy-ever-after. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense the shadow of a familiar figure smiling from the darkness of the wings, her eyes bright with excitement, but before I can be sure, she turns and disappears back into the black. The dancers reappear, and the audience is caught up in the euphoria of applause as I fight the urge to run after the ghost of the girl I used to be to tell her I never meant to leave so suddenly; that what happened was beyond my control. And no, it wasn't fair, but I'm here now and we have the chance to learn a new dance – a better dance – because the time has not yet come for us to take our final bow.
In 2008, she began writing under the pseudonym, Boxofficegirl, creating a platform to explore her observations of the many colourful characters working in and around the theatre. Recently, she has published through the Nottingham City of Literature and the Nottingham Writer’s Studio, of which she is a member. In 2020, she was delighted to see her work brought to life in story videos by the YouTube channel, Zen Mood.
Tracey is currently working on a book about her journey through speech loss, as well as a collection of poetry, and remains passionate about theatre and the community she feels so fortunate to have worked alongside. They will always have a special place in her heart.
Second Act For Box Office Girl.
‘I can see ballet dancers behind the curtain!’
I look down to where my daughter is pointing at a gauze window in the blackout curtain and sure enough, dancers in full costume are going through their warm-up routines.
We're sitting in the second tier of the Royal Concert Hall in Nottingham, waiting for the matinee of The Nutcracker to begin. I study the lower levels with interest as the rest of the audience gradually files in checking seat numbers against their tickets. Tickets I used to sell for both the Concert Hall and Theatre Royal and probably would still be selling, had it not been for a freak accident several years ago that robbed me of my speech and long term job in the box-office. This is the first time I've felt confident enough to attend a performance.
To the left of the stage, I spy another break in the curtain and more dancers gathering. Behind them, the stage-door access I used on the rare occasion I was early for work and the house-staff hadn’t had a chance to open up the front entrance. I always felt a pinch of pride if a member of the public noticed me entering the building via the stage-door. To them, I might be a performer arriving for rehearsals, rather than a clerk turning up for a shift. I'd nod hello to Dick behind his desk, whose vast wealth of knowledge included, 'finishes 'bout ten’, plus other pearls of wisdom delivered without breaking eye-contact with his newspaper.
A lot has changed in the years since I worked here. There are unfamiliar faces amongst the staff who now wear uniforms, and the box-office, completely re-designed has been extended out to where the cloakroom used to be. Even the entrance to the office has been upgraded and is a far cry from the tatty wooden door I remember using. The foyer looks customer-friendly with hi-tech screens advertising upcoming shows and a counter accessible to all. I turn my attention to the brochure, relieved to find familiar blurb advertising shows Direct from the West End!
'What are those seats over there?’ My daughter gestures to two rows on either side of the stage.
'Box seats'. They're not boxes really, not like they are in the theatre. They're called that because of the position. We usually only sell those for concerts and classical events because the sight-lines aren't that great, except if you want to see close up, or into the orchestra pit.
Or sneak a peek at an artist rehearsing when you're supposed to be working.
The knowledge rolls off my tongue as the house- lights come down, and a ripple of applause announces the arrival of the Conductor. My daughter is immediately smitten as the dancers take to the stage in vibrant costumes, her teenage face mesmerised, as Drosselmeyer presents the Nutcracker toy-soldier to the two children. Clara takes a liking to the toy, holding it high above her head and pirouettes around for stage for the audience to admire. Her revelry is short-lived when the toy is carelessly broken by Fritz but I'm already finding it difficult to concentrate, distracted by sparkly outfits worn by two little girls on the tier below, complete with ballet pumps. Principle dancers of the future, judging by the way their parents are encouraging them to sit up and pay attention. I've served a million like them over the years, the – will my child be able to see? - brigade of well-meaning yummies scouring the seating plan, making sure they are booking the best available for their little darlings.
My time in the box-office began in the early '90s when cigarette breaks were still acceptable, and it wasn't unusual for the back-stage crew to spend long lunches in Lilly Langtry’s. The computers were basic, and we were astonished to learn that soon it might be possible to find an address by postcode alone. Our astonishment turned to disbelief when postal charges were introduced closely followed by admin fees, and a colleague had to explain to a disappointed customer that bfee meant booking-fee, not a buffet. Sadly, he would need to make alternative dining arrangements.
I've missed working here, though my relationship with the box-office was at times a love/hate affair. As with any paid employment, there were days when I couldn't wait to finish work and jump on the bus to get home, especially if we'd been snowed under booking the newly announced panto or the autumn classical subscription season. Who wants to think about Box D in the dress circle for the Christmas Eve matinee in June? Or C22/23 in the choir stalls for nine concerts when you can only offer eight? The punters, apparently – and no, they don't want an alternative because those are the seats they always book! By the time you've escaped the queues, the thrill of coming back in the evening to see a show fades to less than nothing over time. Sitting here now, having paid full price plus an admin fee, I can't help wondering if we ever truly value what we have until it's gone?
Out of all the losses I've had to endure, it's the loss of social interaction and excellent banter that grieves me the most. That and being part of a creative team. I had no idea of how quickly the world could change on the spin of a coin or in my case, a bus-ride home that would alter the course of my life forever. And we can never go back, no matter how much we would wish to, the world still turns with or without our presence. Unlike the theatre, there is no two-minute warning bell, like the one I can hear now for the second act to commence.
Being here today has rekindled a desire to belong again. Perhaps even to regenerate – like the Prince, who is magically transformed from the Nutcracker into his true self. I could have done without the universe giving me a shove, but my speech has returned, albeit in a strange accented kind of way. Attending a performance has brought home how much I've missed being part of the hub and served as a reminder of the life I've yet to discover. The journey back has been hard but, having come full circle, perhaps this is the turning point where I say goodbye to the old and hello to a brave new world.
The energy is palpable as the ballet concludes, and with a final waltz, Clara glides away to her happy-ever-after. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense the shadow of a familiar figure smiling from the darkness of the wings, her eyes bright with excitement, but before I can be sure, she turns and disappears back into the black. The dancers reappear, and the audience is caught up in the euphoria of applause as I fight the urge to run after the ghost of the girl I used to be to tell her I never meant to leave so suddenly; that what happened was beyond my control. And no, it wasn't fair, but I'm here now and we have the chance to learn a new dance – a better dance – because the time has not yet come for us to take our final bow.
Type
Article
Location of item
Private Collection: Tracey Curzon-Manners
Rights
Private Collection: Tracey Curzon-Manners
Contributor
Researcher: David Longford
