Hide and Seek

Ballroom. VIP. Royal. What do these words mean to you? When I received an invite to a VIP opening in The Clore Ballroom of the Royal Festival Hall, I wasn't really bothered what they were actually opening. Could have been a window for all I cared. 'Polish the Oxfords Fonzworth, Her Majesty has summoned me!'

So imagine my surprise when we do arrive at the aforementioned Festival Hall: no red carpet, no limos, no paps, no adoring hordes ('Tom! Tom!' they scream. 'Over here!') and, notably, no sign anywhere of Her Majesty. Have I been duped?

What we do see however is, in a sunken level in the main part of the Hall (the Clore Ballroom as it turns out), a kind of scaffolding. Emblazoned across it in large letters that look slightly like they were cut out by the quiet child on the back row of Class 5b, are the words 'Hide and Seek'. What the bloody hell is this? Surely Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom and the British Commonwealth is not hiding in a cupboard somewhere waiting for me to come and find her?

We approach the scaffolding and all the people there with some trepidation. I'm offered wine. That's better. Right, so what on earth is going on? The place looks like a jumble sale full of all those half-remembered childhood games. Spewing from an old trunk are cricket bats, badminton rackets, a toy car. On the floor a pack of cards, lots of multi-coloured pens, and some bizarre antiquated pub game (cheeses, maybe?).

And on a raised platform there is what appeared to be a record store. This actually turns out to be an opportunity to take part in something which I think is called Sleeveface. You get a record sleeve and hold it over your face and somebody takes a photo. They have a whole host of records to choose from and boxes of clothes to dress up in. I'm David Bowie for a moment: it feels good.

After a quick game or two of Guess Who? an announcement is made encouraging people to join in a game called Checkpoint. We all troop upstairs to be confronted by a scene. A woman lies sleeping on the floor, a half-eaten meal beside her. Tables, chairs, a broken typewriter, assorted trinkets. What has happened, we do not know. We're told that we are smugglers and must smuggle the whole scene, one piece at a time, back to the Ballroom. Guards patrol the Festival Hall ready to catch the unsubtle smuggler. I'm eight again! This is so exciting. I empty my satchel to carry a typewriter. Straight up to the guard.

'Excuse me, sorry,' I begin. 'Do you know where the toilets are?' What bravery this is!

'Just over there sir, round the corner.'

My heart is hammering. 'Err, thank you very much' I manage. I follow the guard's directions, and then when he's not looking, quickly turn and rush to the safety of the Ballroom. I've made it! I'm a secret agent!

On my next journey I'm captured. But not before taking up the time and attention of three guards, allowing my fellow smugglers to continue unchallenged. What selflessness! What devotion to the cause! Surely I deserve a medal? And wasn't Her Majesty supposed to be here to award me the VC? She never showed, in the end. The games continued all the way to Dalston but we unfortunately got sidetracked en route. It was a bloody ace time anyway and I'm glad the Queen didn't turned up. I think she might rather have cramped my style.