I started out angry with Matthew Bourne last night. Who was he to continue to profit from our poor man's theatre-deprived appetite for souped up fairy stories (for the Festival Theatre was laden with the poor in their best dresses)? Who was he to take Tchaikovsky and stamp all over his art, chop it up, nurture the best bits, discard the rest and re-assemble it any old how? And worst of all (my new musical sensibilities lying close to the surface), who was he to put so many fine musicians out of a job by making recourse to a piped over the tannoy version of the bastardised score? Who he, indeed?

(But it's no worse than what you do with Shakespeare - quoth B S, reasonably, in the interval.)

It's a measure of his art that by approx 21 minutes in, I was head over heels in love with his Sleeping Beauty.

Man, they have budgets. The most lovely lavish old marble columned and giant drapey brocade curtains that a late Victorian house could wish for. Costumes. Oh my the costumes. Please don't worry yourselves as I've already briefed B S that I want the Carabosse dress for Christmas. A little cheeky puppetry snuck in there and almost persuaded me that I should book book again to see War Horse when it tours.

And beauuuuutiful dancing, giving this little souped up fairy story wings enough to fly. Their little pretty Beauty herself and her soulful, faithful little Greyfriars Bobby of a love were particularly adorable.

So once again, albeit with some mild reluctance, I'm left in awe of Mr Bourne and his souping. Would that I could soup so well.

Proper magic.