Well dear friend Marly, YOU would have to write that book. To go back to that place in memory would, I fear, make me unedurably sad, though dance and movement will always be a part of me, bedded deep in my subconscious. I still dream that I’m standing in the dark and in the wings, counting bars and waiting for my cues. And bonded deeper still, in muscle memory and in the aches of old injuries in my bones. If cut up and examined under a microscope, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find something of it spliced into my DNA. Smoke and glitter in my lungs too, inhaled in great draughts whenever the weighty, ancient plush of nineteenth century house-tabs rose into the velvet darkness, pulling everything with them in the drag and suction of ascent. Oh drat! This just makes me well up. Love and loss in equal measure.

On second thoughts don’t write about me. But if one day you conjure some magical novel set in the world I once inhabited, I will make you lovely dreamy images for it. I’ll give you spangled circus acrobats and prancing horses aplenty. Dancers and actors too, and transformation scrims and sleights-of-hand, powder flashes, demon kings and all the mad, painted panoply of theatrical fancies and deceits. (For make no mistake. The theatre blinds everyone with trickery!) I’ll be your man for that. But no autobiography. No thank you.