I haven’t been to the theatre since 2018. Not because it’s expensive (it is), or because of Covid (which didn’t help, admittedly). Because I’m fat.

Last time I went to the theatre, it took a week for the deep bruises on my hips and thighs to fade. Weeks more for the pain in my knees, from them being jammed up against the back of the seat in front of me, to ease. Even longer for my spine to recover from having to twist myself into unnatural shapes, for fear of intruding on anyone else’s space.

I can’t accept a spontaneous invite, unless it happens to be somewhere I’ve been before. I can’t buy tickets on a whim. And I can’t take advantage of those last-minute cheap deals everyone else who visits the West End gets to enjoy. Can I go and support my friend in their show? Maybe, but only once I’ve done the research, and probably waited ages for a feeble response from the venue. If the tickets aren’t all gone by then.

Or maybe I can, but I’ve got to book box seats* (*restricted view, twice the price, and you’ll probably get neckache/get distracted watching what’s happening in the wings, because that’s 90% of what you can see) and maybe, if I ask nicely, turn around three times and say the alphabet backwards, they’ll rummage a chair out of a cupboard for me. It might not even be a broken one.

(Incidentally, I know this isn’t just a Fat People issue. Disabled access to so many public spaces – not just theatres – is a disgrace in so many places, and venues need to do better. But there are people far better qualified than me to talk about that.)

The thing is, I’m used to it. I’ve been navigating the world in this body since my teens. And it’s not just theatres. Theme parks, public transport, pubs, cafes – I could go on. And on. And on. It’s nothing new, and it isn’t just me. But this week – after a particularly egregious example of Bad Theatre Seating – something snapped. I’ve been dwelling on it for days.

One particular show, at one particular London theatre, has been popping up all over my social media for months now. Ads, everywhere, all the time. It looks great. An actor I love is playing the lead. It’s got good reviews. The story sounds brilliant. I so very nearly bought myself a ticket on a whim. My god, I’m glad I didn’t. The venue’s website didn’t give me what I needed, so I emailed. And waited. And waited. Eventually I heard back (maybe they had to send an intern off with a tape measure) – the width of the seats in the auditorium was…33 centimetres.

33cm. Only slightly bigger than the height of an A4 piece of paper. I’m starting to realise that the lack of information online may not have been an oversight.

It’s such a frequent occurrence for me that it’s usually water off a duck’s back. This time, though, it’s cut much deeper. I haven’t been able to get it off my mind – the mix of frustration, disappointment, shame, anger. It’s even been stopping me sleeping properly.

Why now? Why this time?

I’m not sure. Maybe it’s partly because it’s a play I really wanted to see. Maybe it’s because the size of the seat was so ridiculous, even by London theatre standards. Maybe it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back. Maybe I’m just in a bad mood. Either way, it’s really affected me, and I can’t shake it off even days later.

I don’t remember a time where I would have fit comfortably into a seat that was 33cm wide. A lot of my straight-sized friends said the same, after I shared the size chart online. Just who, exactly, is having a nice time in this theatre? Not many people, by the sounds of it. How many people are going there, only to have the same mortifying experience? The pain of trying to force your body into a space far too small for its size? The huffing and sighing and oh-so-pointy elbows of the strangers with the misfortune to be sitting in the next seat. The waves of white-hot shame because you just know everyone is looking at you, judging you, pitying you.

I’m waiting to hear if there’s a work-around, a way I might still be able to go. But none was forthcoming in the original reply, so I shan’t be holding my breath.

If you’re not fat, and you’re booking tickets for something, perhaps in future you might look out for whether the venue has published their seat dimensions. If they haven’t, you could ask them to. If you’re inviting us to go with you, maybe check that out first, so we don’t have to? And if you have the deep, deep misfortune to be sat next to a fat person in a theatre (or anywhere else, for that matter), could you try not to be an arsehole about it? Believe me, we’re far more uncomfortable than you are.