Rµbþð¬

going to the theatre is like visiting a good friend who is very ill. I am always afraid of what I will find when I get there.

What new ritual of humiliation will she have been subjected to in the name of making her better?

And usually there he is, good old friend, sitting up in bed, the room too warm, the view non-existent, the decor ugly, a grisly smile on his face as he says hello, hello to us all, and the face itself, now I look, what have they done to it?

Is there a mirror?

I immediately want to rush up and show her.

Was it always a question of make-up – too much make-up – to hide the facts, the cracks?

Was he always dying?