In Australia, the birthday party was in full swing. The gangland boss, who looked like a child but was in fact celebrating his 32nd birthday, was leading the games.

He demanded all of his lackeys (me included) call out words beginning with ‘Ir’. ‘Irascible’ and ‘Irradiated’ were offered. We were all desperately trying to avoid using ‘Irritating’. He scoffed at all our efforts and showed us his name-card on which he had written in a childish scrawl. His preferred birthday adjective was ‘Iron’. He really was as stupid as we were frightened.

Later I left my small and squalid New York flat to attend ten minutes of rehearsals with ‘my team’. What a depressing play this was – why had I chosen it?