A sleepy post office is held up by an unmasked gunman. He doesn't want money and he wouldn't hurt a fly. His campaign for change has failed, and now his best friend has died. Bonded by false teeth, divided by a dangerous banana, united over rubber bands and comforted by their collective loneliness, the queue of ordinary people start to feel safe. But why do Post Offices always smell of wee?| 1 Mar 11 to 6 Mar 11 | The Rosemary Branch Inner London, Greater London Performance Details => Venue archive |
