Katie nodded officiously and scurried away to carry out her orders. The manager, whose name was Bob Taylor, ran his fingers anxiously through his receding hair and with a deep breath, marched across the foyer to talk to seat G15 in person.
“Mrs Shiers-” was all he got out before her tirade shot forth.
“What was that, Mr Taylor,” she shrilled in tones that had spent years being cultivated into a semblance of Jean Brodie, “some keynd of joke?”
“I can assure you it was not,” Bob began, but she ignored him.
“If that is the case, I can assure you it was not in the least bit entertaining.”
“This theatre has been going downhill for several months now,” she continued. “The shows you get in are poorly advertised and of poor quality-”
“Mrs Shiers I-”
“- don’t interrupt me Mr Taylor, that’s extremely rude!” She glared at him over the top of her varifocals with undisguised menace. “As I was saying, the shows are terrible, a fact of which you must be aware given that nobody comes to see them – ”
“I wouldn’t say nobody, exactly – ”
“There were twelve people in the audience this evening, Mr Taylor,” she informed him crisply, “I know because I counted. And two of them left during the interval.”
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