There’s a lingerie store in Kensington. You know the type: overpriced and under-stocked. The staff is no help at all, almost like they don’t want any customers at all. They don’t. At least, not in the front of the store. If you can convince them you’re a discerning patron though, they might let you into the red room.
Getting into the red room is easy. At least it seems so on the surface. There’s a door at the back of the shop with a bead curtain in front of it. The door is always locked though and the red room won’t be there if you break in. The key is to walk into the store every day for a week and ask for an array out outlandish products. Vinyl nighties, cardboard stocking and high heeled shoes full of salt have all been amongst the list of code words. Eventually you’ll hit upon the correct code word and the clerk will admit you to the red room.
There is no space in the building for the red room. The place where it is should be taken up by the kitchen of the Italian restaurant next door. The red room is a small strip club, with only a half dozen seats inside and the brightest, shiniest red paint. For the most part, the shows are very said and conventional, but be sure not to attend on any night which belongs to a martyred saint. If you do, you’ll find out the red room: The walls aren’t red. It’s what they’re covered in.