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With a self-inflicted map in the back pocket of a sweaty palm, locating the Stables Theatre on Nimrod Street might prove to be a challenge. The neon lights of Kings Cross blind the eyes and ears in every direction. Street signs pointing here and there momentarily match up with the scrawls to line a clear trail up behind a steep incline. Up the hill and around a side street, converted stables and a window right into the bedroom of someone's home. They would already be asleep if only the person standing outside would just move along.
Red wood lines the nostrils of the box office foyer. A lone man with meticulous facial stylings handles the ticket sales. Tickets which are nothing more than simple raffle stubs stamped with the date—valid only on the night of performance. Take two, ever in the light of everybody disappearing for family gatherings on a day between a strike of public holidays thanks in large part to the undead. All without notice. Strange.
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