The Hobart Chronicles XXXXI: Days Go By

Days go by
I can feel 'em flying
Like a hand out the window in the wind
- Keith Urban, Days Go By, 2004

Time and its command
Soon enough it comes
And settles in its place
A shadow in my face
Puts pressure in my day
- Powderfinger, These Days, 2000

Apologies for the Urban reference, but he is touring to Slobart soon, supporting John Fogerty and Ray Davies. A lineup for old farts and baby boomers, but brightened by rumoured appearance by the reformed Weddos. The reference is apropos of it being February already. You know, days can pass without you noticing. I lose whole weeks that way. It's been like this since I got back to Slobart - back into the same well-worn groove. Meh. But the weekend just gone was quite interesting.

The Theatre Royal is one of the jewels of Slobart culture. It's Australia's oldest working theatre, dating back to 1837. It's just had a refit, including new seating and climate control. Early on Saturday morning a small number of the old seats went on sale.

Carolyn - a friend from work - and I just had to have a piece of history. The seats are about 70 years old, and survived a fire in 1984 that did quite a bit of damage to the theatre. Like you'd expect, they're uncomfortably small and lumpy. But furbished with red velvet, and the cast-iron frames painted a trashy old-gold, they're verrrrry sexy. We've both seen performances in the Theatre Royal, so what a fab thing, to rescue a seat or several and give them a new home.

We figured we might need to get there earlier than 9am when the doors opened. But who gets up at sparrowsfart on a Saturday? Bleary-eyed but armed with newspapers and bolstered the promise of special-delivery coffee and breakfast to come, we got to the warehouse at a leisurely 8am to join the line.

And there actually was a line. Slobartians aren't used to having to queue for anything, so there were only about a dozen hard-core types. A young bloke who'd driven several hours from Launceston; two elegant, perfumed elderly sisters who'd been there since 5am; an old fellow armed with a pillow, a transistor and his pork pie hat. And us, with unbrushed hair and sunglasses.

It was a convivial little gathering. I dragged out a recorder for work, of course. The sisters talked about attending the Theatre for more than 50 years, remembering comedians and ventriloquists touring when they were just little girls. The bloke from Launceston talked about his mother reading a poem on the Theatre Royal stage for a school eisteddfod. A short while later, a fellow came out of the warehouse to hand out numbered tickets for the sale, and everyone lined up more or less in the order they arrived. No pushing, no fuss. "Please, you were here before me - take a ticket first." We came away with tickets 17 and 18 of about 50.

We also received the rules of engagement: Seats available as singles or in sets of two or three; $10 per seat, and one lot only per ticket; when your number is called, come forward to pay and select; no sales before 9am. We sat back to contemplate the choices, begin the Saturday papers, and wait.

A few latecomers whinged, of course, especially when they realised it was a ticketed sale and they had missed out; but most people were happy. As the hour approached, there was a countdown; when the Launceston bloke emerged dragging the first chairs, a bank of three, the little crowd cheered. The sisters, confronted with the rickety cast-iron lumps, opted for one chair each. We each got a bank of two, and my friend's husband got another bank of two, so in total we came away with six.

What are we going to do with them? Dunno. Doesn't matter. They'll find a place somewhere, eventually. In the meantime, they need a little TLC. There's some screws missing from the back of one of mine; all of them need to be bolted to a fixed base to stop them coming apart. And a good dusting is in order... though I might leave the genuine theatre-goer's chewing gum stuck to mine. Sort of adds to the authenticity.