THE DRESSING ROOM OLYMPICS

The Dressing Room Olympics

I knew I might have overdone it when the door opened.

Not dramatically. Not in protest.

Just a quiet extra inch.

Then someone casually fanned a programme in my general direction.

No one said anything. You catch the corner of someone’s eye, knowing exactly what they are thinking.

Which is how you know you’re guilty.

In our small, cosy West End dressing room — four of us, long run, properly settled — I was the one who sprayed too much scent.

In my defence, I like to smell ready. Mid Nineties - Chrisian Dior – Fahrenheit...Ooooh Lovely!

In their defence, there are limits.

That was the moment I realised the Dressing Room Olympics were well underway.

Because dressing rooms on long runs aren’t just rooms.

They’re territories.

Four adults. One compact space. Shared mirrors. Shared kettle. Shared air supply.

And over time, invisible borders form.

No one holds a meeting.

No one draws up a map.

But everyone knows where their bag goes.

You put your backpack down once in a particular corner. That becomes your corner. Weeks later, it’s still your corner. Months later, it’s an internationally recognised sovereign state.

Move it accidentally and you’ll feel the atmosphere tighten.

Minor territory claiming is an event in itself.

Hooks by the door are premium real estate.
Shelf space above the radiator? Strategic.
The plug socket nearest the mirror? Gold standard.

It’s never aggressive. It’s just quietly established.

Mirror light politics is another Olympic category.

Technically, every mirror has bulbs.

I’m in early, my bulb has gone…..Do I, don’t I? Who is the least likely to kick off...I swap the bulb.

In reality, one of them has better bulbs.

One hits at a flattering angle.
One is unforgiving.
One makes you look like you haven’t slept since previews.

No one announces they want the good one.

They just arrive five minutes earlier than usual.

Ritual superstitions follow close behind.

Long runs breed ritual.

One person always applies make-up in the same order.
One taps the mirror three times before beginners.
One refuses to say a particular line in the dressing room.
Someone always warms up in exactly the same corner.

You don’t question it.

You adjust.

Because when you’re doing eight shows a week for months on end, ritual creates control.

Then there’s costume rail invasion.

You are allocated a precise section of rail.

Measured.

Finite.

And yet garments migrate.

A sleeve drifts into your airspace.
A coat expands.
A hat begins colonising neighbouring territory.

You notice.

You say nothing.

You simply rehang your costume with surgical accuracy, reclaiming two inches without eye contact.

Fully grown adults, in period costume, defending hanger borders.

And then there’s the kettle.

The kettle is sacred.

You may use it.
You may refill it.
You may not leave it empty.

The person who repeatedly boils the last of the water and doesn’t refill it becomes quietly legendary — and not in a good way.

No confrontation.

Just a silent note in the communal ledger.

Music control is its own diplomatic summit.

Who connects to the speaker?

One wants calming vocals.
Another wants 90s dance.
Someone else prefers silence.

I literally had one time where I had pop music on and someone kept turning it off and then I turned it back on...it was quite comical.

Compromise is achieved through rotation.

One upbeat track.
One mellow track.
A tactical shuffle.

And through all of this, the show runs flawlessly out front.

The audience sees unity. Precision. Cohesion.

They don’t see four people negotiating mirror angles and fragrance levels.

They don’t see the subtle door-opening when someone overcommits to aftershave.

They don’t see the silent reclaiming of shelf space.

But here’s the truth.

The Dressing Room Olympics aren’t hostile.

They’re affectionate.

When you share that much time in a small space, micro-territories become comfort.

You learn who needs quiet before beginners.
You know who paces.
You know who hums constantly.
You know who always arrives exactly ten minutes before half.

You know who sprays too much.

And when contracts end, when the show moves or you move on, that tiny room — with its slightly better mirror and its occasionally overworked ventilation — is missed more than you expect.

From the front, theatre is scale and spectacle.

From the inside, it’s four people sharing air, space, superstition and shelf territory.

And somehow, that’s what makes it work.

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