The new showstoppers

drunk woman in the seat next to me is softly caressing my hair as though stroking a spaniel. It’s a strange sensation, but I can’t really complain because I’m at the theatre. You’re not meant to talk. Just as I rouse myself to say something, she stumbles to her feet and lurches to the exit. “Finally!” mutters the woman in front, who had asked her to be quiet a few minutes earlier (when my neighbour was dancing in her seat and yelling “That’s right!” after lines she particularly