I am in love with my cast. Desperately unrequitedly in love. I'm at that absurd stage where, practicalities aside, I would rehearse every night if they'd have me and if silly real life didn't get in the way. 

They're all behaving. They all seem to be working on their words. We're a week and a half into books down and some portions are pretty much word perfect. (Other portions are farcically imperfect but I'd rather have flashes of brilliance than uniform drudgery.) And they're all patient (how was it that Justine ended up across social media in a Star Trek outfit?) and kind and lovely and I'd like to spend all of my days with them.

The acting reached an astonishing peak last night. The kids are now all away on holiday. Of course they are - it's three whole working days since term finished. And for Ruby, since school finished altogether and forever. So we have the hilarious procession of stand-ins. Last night, I was both Ruby and 16 year old Brad.

Brad gets the climactic scene in the play. The denouement, such as it is. And he has this ranting speech about what art really is. So I delivered this speech in my best 16 year old yoof speak. And as I was speaking, to my amazement, I saw a tear on Ty's cheek. Amazing, I thought, the power of the words. The power of the acting. How this wonderful speech puts all the pointless frivolity of the play - of this silly rarefied world - into sharp relief. And how powerful my yoof speak must be to so move him.I felt humble.

We finished the scene and I cawed incredulous: "oh my god, were you crying?"

"No!" (appalled). "I think you spat on me."

Oh.