After a charming lunch with Antoine, I trot over to the Theatre Royal for a spot of tea. I'm so enjoying this exquisite last week of freedom.  If only life was a constant rotation of tea, cake and champagne...

I feel a little sorry for the crowds of autograph-hunters as I glide past them, tucked safely behind the barrier. I hear the phwit phwit of pages being frantically turned, programmes being scanned for a picture that looks like me. I smile apologetically, trying to convey an air of sorry folks - just visiting! I fail, naturally. They mistake it for smugness. I instantly suppress the smile and assume what I hope is a neutral expression, but I fear it resembles a sneer. I hear few people make tsk! noises. Now I know how Bernadette Peters' dresser feels. Constantly disappointing.

The lady on stage door buzzes me in and a second later I slam it shut on the menacing crowd that is now peering over my shoulder for a glimpse of Rowan. I sit down quietly and wait for Polly politely. A few muso types go out, probably to the pub.

I'm just beginning to feel uncomfortable when the door bursts open and out pops Polly, tiny as ever, dressed in nothing but a towel, some Ugg boot-type slippers and a shower cap.

"Hi, love!" she beams, almost dropping her towel as she extends her arms to me.

"Hello! How was the matinee?"

"Oh, okay. We were a couple of kids down, but as there are over a hundred of them, I don't think anyone noticed."

"Interesting look," I say, indicating her towel.

"What, this? Yes, it's lovely isn't it. How glamorous," she says, leading me through to the backstage corridor.

Now, if front of house at Drury Lane resembles Napoleon's apartments at the Louvre, then backstage is more like a mental institute from the Fifties. It's grim. Peeling paint, filthy floors and a sterile chill of echoey concreteness. I can even hear the cracked-up wailing of the inmates. No... wait. I think it's just the sound of luvvies doing their vocal exercises.

I follow Polly up the stairs, conscious of her lack of footsteps, trying to mute my own. We pass several floors, up and up until I feel the air thin.

"Here we are," says P, grabbing a key off a ledge and taking it to a nearby door. I hold my breath in anticipation of a prison cell, but what I am greeted with is a Chintzy little affair, a cosy assortment of florals and pastels. There's even a bed, which P has cleverly disguised as a sofa with a few strategically placed cushions.

I look around. It's definitely had the P treatment. She's brought in an abundance of home comforts; toaster, kettle, microwave, cups, plates, cutlery.

"You've lucked out here," I say, picking up a spoon with a serrated edge. "What the hell is this?"

"It's a fruit spoon," replies P. Figures. Polly's the only person I know who would even possess such an object, let alone bring it into work.

"Yes, we definitely lucked out, me and Doll," she says.

The comedy potential of Polly sharing a room with Dolly has not been lost on me.

"The rest of the female ensemble are all shoved in together over the other side of the building,"she continues. "It's like an episode of Bad Girls."

I imagine hair-pulling and eye-scratching, but I think she means the room, not its inhabitants.

"Can't they refurb it?" I say. "It's about time, surely."

"Company manager loves it," she says. "He says it's a proper theatre. Says they don't make them like this any more."

There's a reason for that.

We have a lovely couple of hours, the two of us. Rose-flavoured cupcakes, gossip, a bit of American Idol. It's a shame P has got another show to do. Saturday night telly was looking quite good.

As I walk down the stairs I can't help feeling disappointed that I haven't seen Rowan Atkinson.

And then it happens. We turn a corner and there he is, deep in conversation at the end of the corridor with the company manager. He looks troubled, deep lines running across his brow and dark circles under his eyes. He sees us and smiles briefly, but oddly, the frown survives. I look more closely and realize it's makeup. I try to return the smile, but get consumed by a sudden attack of shyness and trip over Polly's left slipper in my haste to scuttle away.

"You alright?" says P as I fall through the doorway to the exit.

"What? Oh, yes. Just got my heel stuck," I babble.

"Right," she says, disbelievingly.

I say goodbye to P and leave the stage door. The poor sods are still outside. God knows what they're waiting for. They'll have a long wait. The evening performance is about to start.

I make my way home to wait for the Wanderer. I feel tired. I hope I stay awake long enough to see him. It's been a long day, especially in six-inch heels.