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Well.
A rather more interesting rehearsal than usual this evening, because when I got to the theatre, I found two youths in the hall when I turned on the light. All three of us were very much surprised, but the boys legged it before I could do more than shout "What the hell are you doing?!" I did pursue, but only briefly, realising that (a) I wasn't going to catch them, and (b) if I caught them, what then?
There was a ten-minute hiatus while I—and the two actors who arrived two minutes after the intruders departed—waited for someone to open the office door so we could get to the phone. During those ten minutes we investigated the fire door through which the boys had fled; they had gained entrance by chucking a quite large stone through one of the (double glazed) window panes, so there were glass shards (and a quite large stone) lying on the floor. We then observed that one of the TV monitors high on the side wall had been, hmm, tampered with and was at a rather drunken angle.
Once we got into the office it was clear that the intruders had been in there, too. There were money bags all over the floor (they hadn't been full, we keep a supply on hand), and the hatchway to our Box Office had been forced off its hinges—this was presumably how they got into the office, which is kept locked, though they might have got in with a credit card. The only thing we noticed was missing was a torch. But there were a couple of keys on one of the chairs near the bar entrance, which had been obtained from the office cupboard. The important keys are kept in a metal cabinet that is locked, so if the youths were trying to get into the bar—which was my impression, when I first saw them—they weren't going to get very far.
Anyway. I called our Hall Manager, and I called the police. After some faffing, because the police apparently do not have our building on their computer system, she dispatched officers, who arrived about half an hour later and did policey things like communicating in alpha-bravo-x-ray and instructing us sternly not to touch the evidence. (Which, surprisingly—because by this time everyone had arrived for the rehearsal—we had refrained from doing.) The whole thing was rendered almost surreal by the pounding background of Gilbert and Sullivan, as naturally the rehearsal must go on, even when there are three police officers in lurid green jackets doing their thing. They're sending someone tomorrow to do a more exact analysis of the situation, test the keys and door and broken panel, etc, for fingerprints, and so forth. Splendidly, there were Footprints on some of the chairs below both the monitors. Footprints! Well, trainer prints, anyway.
It was quite exciting. I'm still a bit amazed, because—really!
A rather more interesting rehearsal than usual this evening, because when I got to the theatre, I found two youths in the hall when I turned on the light. All three of us were very much surprised, but the boys legged it before I could do more than shout "What the hell are you doing?!" I did pursue, but only briefly, realising that (a) I wasn't going to catch them, and (b) if I caught them, what then?
There was a ten-minute hiatus while I—and the two actors who arrived two minutes after the intruders departed—waited for someone to open the office door so we could get to the phone. During those ten minutes we investigated the fire door through which the boys had fled; they had gained entrance by chucking a quite large stone through one of the (double glazed) window panes, so there were glass shards (and a quite large stone) lying on the floor. We then observed that one of the TV monitors high on the side wall had been, hmm, tampered with and was at a rather drunken angle.
Once we got into the office it was clear that the intruders had been in there, too. There were money bags all over the floor (they hadn't been full, we keep a supply on hand), and the hatchway to our Box Office had been forced off its hinges—this was presumably how they got into the office, which is kept locked, though they might have got in with a credit card. The only thing we noticed was missing was a torch. But there were a couple of keys on one of the chairs near the bar entrance, which had been obtained from the office cupboard. The important keys are kept in a metal cabinet that is locked, so if the youths were trying to get into the bar—which was my impression, when I first saw them—they weren't going to get very far.
Anyway. I called our Hall Manager, and I called the police. After some faffing, because the police apparently do not have our building on their computer system, she dispatched officers, who arrived about half an hour later and did policey things like communicating in alpha-bravo-x-ray and instructing us sternly not to touch the evidence. (Which, surprisingly—because by this time everyone had arrived for the rehearsal—we had refrained from doing.) The whole thing was rendered almost surreal by the pounding background of Gilbert and Sullivan, as naturally the rehearsal must go on, even when there are three police officers in lurid green jackets doing their thing. They're sending someone tomorrow to do a more exact analysis of the situation, test the keys and door and broken panel, etc, for fingerprints, and so forth. Splendidly, there were Footprints on some of the chairs below both the monitors. Footprints! Well, trainer prints, anyway.
It was quite exciting. I'm still a bit amazed, because—really!
