Nation was the end Saturday in January, a month I must admit to being glad to see the back of this year. The National Theatre's live relay to cinemas across the land. Terry Pratchett. So not my cup of tea. Fantasy "young girl washed up on an island, meets savage boy, they learn wisdom from each other and both end up better for it" story. So not my cup of tea. Lots of music and movement and puppets and song and cool set and beautiful costumes. More my cup of tea. Oh and beautiful young people acting in it. Even more my cup of tea.

But sadly not enough my cup (yes, laboured the metaphor long enough) to keep me rooted to my seat as the siren call of South Shields hauntingly lured me from the cinema in the interval.

But then I felt bad when I saw Terry give his prelude to his Dimbleby lecture on the Monday night in favour / support / defence of assisted suicide. A worthy cause to my mind. An act of incredible bravery I thought. And felt a bit bad that I'd not liked his play more. Not that it would be a great deal of help to him if I did or I didn't.

But it (Nation, not the Dimbleby lecture) did teach me the valuable lesson that even the most shockingly flimsy, unlikely and implausible stories can become adorable when acted sincerely and well. A useful lesson.