Personal

The theatre

Theatre Street crosses the top of Angel Lane. Although I've lived here six years, today was the first time I'd been found the theatre. The building I wandered into this evening served as a playhouse for just under fifty years and is now an auction saleroom.

As I walked down the sloping entrance hall paved - like my lounge - with yellow Suffolk bricks, I discovered into the hidden night-life I've been looking for since moving to Woodbridge. Although there have been no plays here for a hundred and fifty years, today under its lofty vaulted ceiling an equally compelling cast acted out a silent drama.

Just inside the door, the proud businessman selling catalogues to visitors. Further in, a short man in a duffel jacket caresses the top of an oak dresser, feeling in an instant that it bows slightly towards the back. By the cutlery an old couple patiently checking each box for the missing item in their silver service while in the next room their daughter flicks through old photographs looking for the right tone to decorate her room. Bustling about from lot to lot, men in white overalls offer advice while keeping a watchful eye on the viewings.

And back at the door, a quiet man with a digital camera stands patiently, trying to imagine what it'll be like here in the morning when the auction's in full swing.