Sarah has been doing the morning drop-off in Wimbledon this week and I've been shouldering the burden of the much more trafficky, road-ragey, cycle-dodging evening pick-up. She dropped Ed off at the theatre on schedule at 9.00 and set off on the return trip to North London. Clapham - text from Ed - 'might be finishing rehearsal early, WAIT.' She killed half an hour in Boots buying some travel size toiletries for hols awaiting further instructions. 'Finished. Come and pick me up.' Back in the Volvo. U-turn. By now the shopping destinations of Balham, Tooting Crap and Collier's Wood are rammed. The Volvo crawls along, over-heating. Much later, back in the New Wimbledon Theatre car park, Sarah and Ed while away the hours contemplating the rain dripping down the steamed-up windows.
It's about 5 hours between the end of rehearsal and call time for the evening performance. The journey home takes 2 hours, the journey back takes 2 hours so it's not worth it for 40 minutes downtime. I listen sympathetically to the distressed phone calls from the comfort of LP. I've read Arseblog, walked the dogs, tidied my desk, watched a live stream of Arsenal playing a meaningless friendly in China, walked the dogs, texted the kids at 4.30pm to get up ('we are, chill'), administered paracetamol to a hungover 18 year old and thrown 2 pizzas in the oven for Joe and Phoebe's breakfast. Time for a glass of wine.