Roxi laughs before she speaks, usually at herself, and it disarms a room within about four seconds. She is 168 cm and curvy, strong through the shoulders from three mornings a week on a boxing pad, her black hair long, her brown eyes giving away exactly how entertained she is. Early twenties. She dresses for movement and colour: a bright dress, a battered leather jacket, trainers in her bag for the walk home, and a manicure that never survives a week.
Playful is the first quality and vivacious is the second, though what people mention afterwards is how easy she makes everything. She has no interest in being mysterious. Her English is quick and full of asides. Boxing is the fitness habit she is slightly evangelical about. Podcasts are what she listens to while doing it. Surfing is the thing that steals her weeks, which is precisely where she is at the moment, on a coast somewhere with poor reception and no intention of checking her messages.
When she is back, her evenings belong behind the station. Coal Drops Yard, where the old coal sheds now hold bars and restaurants under those long curved roofs, is her sort of place: loud enough to be fun, open late, and two minutes from the canal path when you want to stop shouting over music. She likes the walk along the water afterwards, and she likes that none of it existed in this form when she was at school.
Pimlico is home, and Kings Cross evenings restart on the 28th once she is off the water. Ask booking to put your night on the board for that week and it will be there when she lands.
Her home stage is Pimlico, and she travels from there to the venues this house covers. Her full listing sits with the rest of the company on the companions page.