In a packed Fringe programme, a play about an assisted suicide pact stood out as one to see. Its potential for insight was reduced to a passion-free performance of ordinariness.

The script was wooden and incredible; from their conversation, lifelong partners Jimmy and Sal might have been waiting for a double-glazing salesman, never mind he who would provide the pill to send them both off to eternal sleep.

It was a surprise to know they were married; at the start Jimmy idly browsed through a box of old photos and Sal came in to promptly tidy them away like his carer might have or a good neighbour popping in to check on him.

There was a distinct lack of drama. Jimmy coughed into a handkerchief to tell us he was ill, and stood up occasionally with the help of his walking stick; Sal rarely came anywhere near him on this, purportedly their last, afternoon. Still, she stressed she couldn’t face life without him.

Timing was an issue as well as pace; suspense was completely missing. It was easy to guess who the caller was from the first, even though the actors didn’t mention suicide. The ending was utterly predictable.