London Stories


Off-West End

Battersea Arts Centre

Until Sat Sep 28 2013

  • © John Hunter

  • © John Hunter

  • © John Hunter

  • © John Hunter

  • © John Hunter

  • © John Hunter

  • © John Hunter

© John Hunter

Time Out rating:

<strong>Rating: </strong><span class='lf-avgRating'>4</span>/5

User ratings:

<strong>Rating: </strong><span class='lf-avgRating'>5</span>/5
Rate this


Add +
Critics' choice

Users say

<strong>Rating: </strong><span class='lf-avgRating'>0</span>/5

Average User Rating

5 / 5

Rating Breakdown

  • 5 star:1
  • 4 star:0
  • 3 star:0
  • 2 star:0
  • 1 star:0
1 person listening
Natalia Gleason

London Stories Tonight I went to the theatre and I met six people. They talked to me about their life. Almost cried. Twice. Didn't know if clapping was proper. Sometimes I did clap. I clapped for the boy having bad dreams about prisons. I clapped for the girl working with autistic children. I clapped for the woman who admits to her guilt. Other times I said thank you. The thank you stories posessed me. She was perched on top of a bed and talked to me as if I was her dead husband. When I entered the room I was uncomfortable, she looked rough, it was dark, I was sitting on a strange bed next to a stranger, listening to this story that took hold of me with a force I was never anticipating. When she was done I wanted to hug her. But I had to leave. Thank you Jane. Next was an Ipad, this felt like cheating, the plastic of the headphones, the tiny screen in the theatrical event. But again, a fragile woman swept me away after i pushed play. I thought she might be the Londoner who loves London the most. I can't stop wishing her well. I hope she is not in the hospital any more. Thank you Eleanor. My penultimate para-theatrical encounter had Londons night skylight as the backdrop. In the right corner of the dark room sat the set designer with her candle. She spoke to us about her mother, and how to cry in London, how to me good at grief, the best at it in fact. Thank you Susannah. I came out of the room of reflection wanting to join the audience at the second show of the night. There were no tickets left. True story.