Frozen Bays and Damp Socks: Notes from a November Load-In
Photo: Rept0n1x, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
November in the UK is not a season; it’s a load-in condition. The forecast says “light drizzle”, the loading bay says “slip hazard”, and your kit bag says “I have been damp since Leeds”. I’ve just come off a winter run, and while the audience saw warm light and a polished front-of-house, the company saw frozen ramp rails, a draughty wing and a tea urn doing the work of a small power station. Here are the notes I’d pass on to anyone working through the cold months.
The Loading Bay Is a Different Climate
Treat the bay like a venue of its own. Check the weather the night before, not on the drive in. Pack the van so the waterproof cases are last in and first out. Bring gloves that let you tie a knot, not just look tough. If the ramp is wet, walk it before you push a flight case down it. And if the venue has a grit bin, use it — quietly, without making a speech. A frozen loading bay can turn a fifteen-minute get-in into a forty-minute negotiation with gravity.
Kit Bags That Breathe (and Ones That Don’t)
Damp kit is the winter villain. Wet cables, soggy gloves, a hoodie that smells like a swimming pool by Thursday. Use dry bags for anything electrical. Put silica packs in the cases you open every day. Label the outside of bags with a marker so you’re not unpacking three black holdalls in a dark wing. And keep one “dry zone” bag for socks, a spare T-shirt and a phone charger. It sounds fussy. It is not fussy when you’re changing in a corridor with a radiator that hasn’t worked since the building was listed.
The Wing That Never Warms Up
Every old UK theatre has a wing that seems to generate its own weather system. Draughts arrive from nowhere. The radiator clanks and then gives up. Layer up in things you can remove without ruining a quick change: thermal base, fleece, a soft-shell that doesn’t sound like a crisp packet under the mic. Keep a thermos of hot water — not just tea — for hands and for the person who forgot theirs. Hand warmers are cheap and make you look like a hero. A small blanket in the quick-change corner is not a luxury; it’s infrastructure.
Small Rituals That Keep a Company Functioning
The cold makes everything feel longer, so the small stuff matters more. A tea rota. A boot tray by the stage door. A dry towel in the wings for the actor who comes off soaked. Someone bringing soup on the Tuesday. These aren’t perks. They’re the glue. On a winter run, morale is a practical resource. If you’re the person who notices the kettle is empty, you’re doing a production job.
There’s also the half-hour call ritual: check the radiators, check the towels, check that the person who’s been quiet all day has actually eaten something. Winter touring is a team sport played in coats. The company that looks after its quietest member usually has the smoothest show.
When the Rain Gets In
It will get in. A case will leak on the dock. A coat will drip through the dressing room. A bag will be left outside the stage door for four minutes too long. Don’t panic — triage. Separate wet from dry, hang what can be hung, wipe what can be wiped, and tell the company what’s happened before the half-hour call. The worst winter mistakes are the ones people hide. A wet cable is a safety issue; a wet secret is a mood issue. Deal with both early.
The Van Is a Greenhouse for Bad Smells
A small one, but worth saying. Damp wool and forgotten gym kit do not improve with time. Air the van when you stop. Hang what you can. Keep a bin bag for the truly unspeakable. And never leave a wet towel in a holdall overnight unless you want the whole company to know about it by lunchtime.
The Warm Side of the Curtain
The audience will never see the frozen bay or the damp socks. They’ll see the warm light and hear the cue. That’s the deal. But the people who make it happen deserve a decent cup of tea, a dry pair of gloves and a loading bay that’s been gritted. If you’re on the warm side of the curtain this winter, enjoy it. If you’re on the cold side, look after each other. And keep a spare pair of socks in the van. Always.
