Reading Anthony Burgess’ gorgeous, peerless novel of Christopher Marlowe, A Dead Man in Deptford – not only (!) a book of heartbreak and hard beauty, but a passionate and mysterious alchemy of writer and writer, reminiscent, to me anyway, of Graham Robb and Arthur Rimbaud – makes one consider how difficult it is to write realistically of performance: no one wants to watch dance about architecture, right, and the overlay of enacted fictions on written fiction can sometimes be too precious by half, or too fey, or too much of a muchness. The puppets of the Poppy, being wooden and ironical by nature, I hope avoid that state, or fate. Puppets are the most nimble of all actors, the most silent, and without a doubt the longest lived.

Do yourself a favor and read this, if theatre in any format speaks to you at all.