What makes a decent interval?

Theatre critics are almost certainly not the best group of people to ask about intervals. We tend to think intervals are for wimps. King Lear straight through at three and a half hours? Bring it on! OK, maybe that's a mite extreme, and overly punishing on most people's bladders. But then increasingly audiences seem to think that they can take the interval any time it suits them, often causing disruption to other theatregoers.

As the current cracking revival of Ghosts at Trafalgar Studios proves, with some productions – even of classic plays – there are artistic dividends in dispensing with an interval entirely. But as I was arriving to see Ghosts a few weeks back, the couple in front of me expressed their disappointment loudly when they discovered that there was no interval. It was a reminder that for many the interval – and the chance to enjoy a drink or an ice-cream and discuss the play – is very much part of their theatregoing experience. As in the plays of Harold Pinter, the pause really can matter.

The quality of the interval can be as important as the quality of the show itself, but it's not something that all venues recognise. The good ones do. Sir Cameron Mackintosh recently told me that as it was expected that the audience for The Full Monty would have a high proportion of women, some of the gents toilets at the Noel Coward theatre would be redesignated as female loos for the run. Smart thinking. A long queue for the ladies can steal an entire interval.

So what makes a good interval? No theatre can be held accountable for the quality of the company you keep, but they can do something about ensuring there are sufficient clean loos (with soap and hand-drying facilities), enough trained bar staff to deal with the rush, fair prices for quality wine and coffee, and that the ice-cream hasn't been taken out of the freezer so early that it's melted into a sad puddle.

My worst interval experiences include being turfed out of a fringe theatre for a scene change and being made to stand in the rain because the bar couldn't accommodate everyone, and fearing I might need to be resuscitated at the Savoy theatre during Porgy and Bess when the crush of people entering the small stalls bar from two entrances created a funnel effect. Then there was the ice-cream at the old Unicorn at the Arts theatre which tasted as if it had never seen a cow and was made almost entirely from vegetable fat. Yummy.

But I've reason to feel affection for intervals: the first words I ever exchanged with my partner took place during a chance encounter at an interval at the Donmar. Top that if you can, and tell us your best and worst interval stories.