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.”

“No, well-”

“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.”