court

In the same hour that my sister boarded a plane headed for Khartoum, a character walks on stage and shouts that he has just escaped the clutches of the Jangaweed.

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The play pulled together the modern Ireland, Sudan, and relationship crises, all things that I have been exposed to of late. When you are in these boxes, it is easy to judge whether the language rings true or not. You either sit on the edge of your seat watching your life pass by your nose, or you sit back and raise your eyebrows.

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The bar is the usual rattle. The stately director, featuring oncemore, making a statement in his scruffiness. Familiar faces wondering where they may have seen your familiar face before. (A wedding; a short film shoot; in your home when you cooked for them; never.) A splash of Hollywood lending its blessing; a clean-shaven literary manager once known as Megan; the same people who are always here; and no-one wanting to talk about the play.

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The seats are the most comfortable in London. A critic scribbles beside me. There has been sporadic but controlled coughing throughout the show. Mainly from me. In the dying seconds of the first half, a daughter hands her father a guitar. It is a peace offering. The father takes it. In the middle of the night he sings her a short, sweet song. The song is perhaps a minute long. Thirty seconds in, the cough seizes me. It takes possession of the depths of my throat. My throat trembles like a pregnant opera singer. The spasms cannot be controlled. The actor sings sweetly. I swig my water. It doesn’t help. The cough barks. It barks again. I try to swallow it. It laughs at me. I convulse. The thirty seconds is lasting longer than thirty weeks. The cough is totalitarian. It throws me forwards. I’m on the floor. Hacking and barking and howling. The singer sings his gentle song. The cougher writhes. The lights go down. Applause ripples round the theatre. The cougher scales his seat. Swigs water. The cough has loosened its grip. It retreats for the interval, smirking.