I'm in Kingston for my second show of the day. There's the Rose Theatre up ahead. After my long trek from Bromley, I'm looking forward to a bit of a sit down. Might even buy myself a cup of tea.
I stand on the opposite corner and get my phone out to take a picture of the outside. Bit of an odd angle this, but never mind.
At least there aren't too many people walking around.
There aren't many people at all.
I lower my phone and peer at the building.
It looks deserted.
I follow the road around the building and look through the windows.
The cafe, which had been packed full on my trip here last week, is now entirely empty. The shutters on the counter are down. It's closed.
That's... odd.
You'd think on a Saturday night they'd be doing a roaring trade. All those pre-show glasses of wine won't drink themselves after all.
Unless, of course, it's not pre-show.
Oh gawd.
I get out my phone and after a few stress-filled seconds, find the confirmation email. No, there is it. Out Of The Dark on Saturday 02 November 2019 at 20:00 in Rose Studio.
20:00.
8pm.
Shit.
What time is it?
Not even half past seven.
I'm far too early.
Double shit.
Okay then. No need to panic. Better to be early than late. At least that gives me time to explore the delights of Kingston.
I turn around and walk back to the centre. I could buy myself that cup of tea. Scrap that, I could buy myself a hot chocolate. Yeah. I'm going to give me an upgrade on this miserable day.
Trouble is, everything is closed. The people of Kingston have all gone home. Every cafe I pass is busy stacking up their chairs. Aproned baristas carry out large bags of rubbish and pile them up on the pavement. Shutters are being lowered all around me.
I walk through a silent arcade, marvelling how dead things can get so early in the evening.
I forgot what it was like living in the countryside.
Okay, I kid. You know I grew up in the proper countryside. The type of countryside where you have to walk a half mile just to reach a payphone, and there's only one bus a week.
But also... not really.
Even the Costa in Finchley manages to eek it out until 8pm, and that's in zone bloody four.
What zone is Kingston in?
Six.
There you go. The bloody countryside.
I keep on walking, looping around and weaving back and forth through the streets.
Eventually, on my third rotation, I figure that I've killed enough time and make my way back to the theatre.
There are people here now. Queuing at the box office.
"Have you got any cash? Two pounds?" asks a woman.
"Yeah," comes the reply. "Don't worry, I won't make you pay for me."
"Same again?" asks the box officer as the next person takes their turn.
I'm beginning to think these people must be members of some kind of audience club.
Oh well. I paid full price to be here. So that's okay.
As I reach the front of the queue, the box office is busy filling out some paperwork.
It takes him a minute to see me. I occupy myself by looking around and trying to warm up my hands.
"Oh, sorry!" he says as he spots me waiting.
"Don't worry," I tell him, still rubbing life back into my fingers. "It's nice just to be out of the cold. The surname's Smiles?"
He finds the ticket.
"What's the postcode?" he asks.
I tell him.
"That's the one!" he says cheerfully. It must be on my record that postcodes are a bit of a challenge for me.
There's no show in the main house. Not tonight. The Lovely Bones has closed.
A sign tells us that the Rose Cafe is closed.
Bummer.
Another sign indicates that the Circle Bar is open. Not really what I was after, but okay...
A front of houser smiles at me.
"Is the Circle Bar up here?" I ask, pointing to the nearest staircase.
"Up the stairs and the bar is open," she says, pointing in the complete opposite direction. Towards the cafe.
There isn't a sadder sight in all the world than a closed cafe. Okay, I mean, caged animals and starving children, sure. But apart from that: there isn't a sadder sight in all the world than a closed cafe.
At least they haven't stacked the chairs.
I walk around the dramatic staircase that takes up the central point of this space and go up.
There's a lot of people here. Turns out there really isn't anywhere else to go in Kingston tonight.
I look around and spot the loos. Ah. I should probably see what's happening in there. For investigative purposes. And not at all because the loos in Bromley were grim and I kinda need to pee quite badly now.
I go through the door just to the side of the bar, down a long corridor, and find them.
They're nice enough. Clean. Whatever. Don't really have anything further to say.
Back in the bar, and it is a proper bar. A little tray of citrus sits out alongside a procession of different sized measures.
Somehow I don't think asking for a hot chocolate would go down all that well.
Over by the windows is something far more interesting. A water station. Two jugs. A stack of cups. Perfect.
I go over and pour myself a glass, taking it over to the little ledge that surrounds the staircase and claiming a spot.
This is a great vantage point. I can see all the people walking over from the box office, inspecting their long reams of tickets as they head for the stairs.
I can also keep an eye on the entrance to the studio.
The door bangs open and someone comes out to give the nod.
"Good evening," comes a voice over the tannoy. "Welcome to the Rose Theatre. The Studio is now open for this performance of Out Of The Dark. The Studio is now open. You can now take your seats."
We all slowly stir, and make out way round the mezzanine, lining up to go inside.
As we inch our way forward, I spot something on the ledge. A pile of freesheets. At least I think they're freesheets. They have the show artwork on them, so they might just be really lousy flyers.
Not sure if they're up for the taking.
I grab one all the same and folding it up, stuff it safely into my bag before slipping into the auditorium.
You know, you can never guess what you're going to get with studio theatres. Main houses tend to look the same. Oh sure, some might be fancier than others. Some have all that Edwardian splendour and others are all stripped back wood and steel. But for the most part, they follow a general design. Studios however, are all over the fucking place.
Some of them are proper little theatres, just miniaturised. Just this afternoon, I was in one which was really, when it came down to it, a well-lit storage room.
This one is a school gymnasium.
Breeze-block walls. Floor level stage. And a block of seating, which, let's be real, is just bleachers with cushioning.
I go over to the far end, and set up just in front of the tech desk which has taken up residence on the end of the back row.
We're got those double-wide flip down seats that they also have in the main house, but it doesn't look like I'll have to share. Most people are choosing to sit further forward. Some so far forward that they're actually in a row of chairs either side of the stage. Rows that are raised on short little platforms. Not sure why. It's not like anyone is sitting in front of them. It does add a certain regalness to their position though.
A couple of ushers are whispering to each other.
"They're on the bar," one says.
The other goes off, returning a few seconds later with the freesheets.
"Would anyone like a free programme?" he calls out, holding up the pile so that we can see. And yup, that's the pile I pilfered from earlier. "Free programme, anyone?"
He walks along the seats, handing them out to anyone who raises their hand.
More people are coming in. They try to sit in the front row, but the usher on that side isn't having it. "We're trying to save these seats," she tells them. "For latecomers. Otherwise we'll desturb you."
They meekly go and sit further back.
Another tannoy message plays. This one inside the auditorium. A reminder to turn off our phones.
And then the lights are dimming and it's time to begin.
Two cast members. A couple. They're having a baby.
They speak in stilted sentences. Repeating themselves and each other, forming patterns with their words.
It feels awkward at first, and hard to grasp onto. But I soon settle into the rhythm and am swept away on the tidal wave of the characters’ desperation.
We're very quiet on the way out.
Groups form on the mezzanine and long held breaths are let out in puffing sighs.
"Oof."
I slip down the stairs and down the corridor.
"Goodnight!" I say as cheerfully as I can, wrapping my arms around myself to keep away the chill, and the heartache.
Oof.