I am traumatised by the very thought of visiting the theatre. This stems from incidents in the past. One, for example, involved ice-cream, a fur coat and my friend Mark - who, like me, is blind, and who seems to be at the centre of many of my strange ordeals.

When my partner and I were given tickets by her father, we thought it might be a good idea to meet Mark and his wife, Sally, who live in London, and join them in the West End. However, something has held me back from going online to book travel and accommodation. Let me explain.

Many years ago, Mark and I were students at a college for the blind in England. As part of the college's aim to turn us into rounded individuals, it would organise trips to the theatre in London. This was long before the days of audio description in theatres for visually impaired patrons. If the play contained scenes where there was no dialogue, we would have to sit there bemused, pondering what was happening. Was it a dramatic death scene? Maybe it was a murder and we missed whodunit. More importantly, being callow youths, was it a sex scene we were missing?

The saying "In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king" has never been so accurate. Six of us sat in a row, with various levels of vision. Some were so short-sighted they couldn't see the person in front. Some had no central vision, being startled by the bright stage lights but hardly able to see the actors. The rest were totally blind. Information would be passed up and down the line like Chinese whispers from the student with the most vision at the end. Furtive requests for more details passed from lips to ears. The information rippled between us like a Mexican wave. "What's happening?" An eternity later, the answer would return. "She's taking her kit off." Its journey continued up the line: "She's taking his hat off." Eventually I was told: "She's taking the cat off." As you can imagine, it could get very confusing, particularly when discussing the plot in the bar. "So, what's the relevance of the cat being taken off in the second act? Is that some kind of symbolism?" With such confusing interpretation, you would assume we had been watching six different performances.

A select number of theatres today provide audio commentary for visually impaired people. During a production's run they offer a number of audio-described performances. I'm handed a small receiver with a set of headphones. Every gesture and piece of visual action, down to what the actors are wearing, is described by someone at the back. This is done without detracting from the plot. It can transform a visit to the theatre from a frustrating and isolating experience into one that is enthralling and engaging.

However, I'm still hesitating to book that trip to London to attend the West End with Mark. Some 25 years ago, when we were studying English literature, a group of us was taken to the National Theatre to see Sheridan's The Rivals. The interval came, and we decided to find something to eat or drink.

Neither Mark nor I had much vision, so when Mark accidentally collided with a queue, we decided to join it. "What are we queuing for?" I asked.

"Well," Mark answered, "clearly they're selling something, or there wouldn't be a queue."

We could have asked someone but we were shy and didn't want to cause a scene. So, with our white sticks in hand, we snaked slowly forward. Just before the intermission bell was rung, we reached the head of the queue. The woman asked: "What would you like?" Mark responded: "We'll have two, please." We still didn't know what she was selling.

She responded: "What flavours would you like?"

Fantastic! It's something to eat. Coolly, Mark asked what flavours she had. "Vanilla or raspberry." It was ice-cream. We paid half our grant over and rushed back to our seats, getting there just before the lights went down. I peeled back the cardboard lid and stuck in my spoon. I had only just dug it in when I was nudged in the ribs by Mark. He thrust an empty tub into my hand. He was trembling. He blurted: "It's gone!"

"What do you mean, gone? You've finished it?"

"No, it's gone!"

It appears that, when he stabbed his spoon into the tub, the ice-cream came out in one plug and flew across the auditorium. Going quietly hysterical, our shoulders heaved as we thought of people with fur coats and long dresses sitting all around us. Where did the ice-cream go? We listened intently.

Not a sound. At the end of the play, we left quietly and guiltily.

If this were to occur today, at least the audio might let us know what had happened. Just as Lady Bracknell was coming out with the line: "A hand-bag?" the audio describer would say: "Oops! The actress has been smacked in the chops with a raspberry ripple."