This is merely a postscript to my post “A Foolish Thing”, after which I was so incapacitated by excitement that I was unable to write another word for months. Ok, less excitingly, but more accurately, the demands of work and studying took over. I was, however, truly excited, with that small, deep shiver of excitement which takes residence when something marvellous is being waited for, and I was consistently, if gently, mocked by my family, friends and colleagues. How ridiculous to be so excited about this co-incidence of Twelfth Night performed on Twelfth Night. As if anyone else would care….

My Twitterfeed gave the first sign that something rather special might be about to occur: Stephen Fry tweeted that the company was to enjoy an Epiphany feast after their Twelfth Night performance. Someone else did care about this co-incidence of date: deep down, I had always sensed I could trust the wonderful maverick Mark Rylance about this. With some time before the show, I indulged in a casual linger across from the stage door, just to watch and smile. Or, in this case, see Mark Rylance emerge for a break, and stand there chatting to the stage doorman. And, briefly but very graciously, to me. …

Next, into the theatre. To recreate the atmosphere of a winter Tudor performance at, for example, the Inns of Court, two sets of seats had been built on each side of the stage. The one ticket I had found to buy was, wonderfully, a stage seat. And the usher, noting that I was on my own (to be honest, it is kinder not to inflict my company on anyone else in these circumstances) offered me a seat at the end of the front row, right at the back by the stage entrance. ‘Is that alright madam?’ ‘Oh yes, that will do fine, thank you very much, I think I do actually need to sit down now’. I was within spitting distance of the lovely company getting attired for the performance, watching Sam Barnett doing his makeup, Mark Rylance rehearse the movements which transformed him into a woman, Colin Hurley (Sir Toby) persuading audience members to hide bottles and hand them to him during the performance. Meanwhile, all the cast were wishing the audience “happy Twelfth Night”. No matter what the cost of the ticket, I had had my money’s worth before one word of the play had been spoken.

My only problem with Twelfth Night is that I have seen it so many times, it is hard to put past memories aside and come to it anew. But this had the authenticity of original practices and it was happening, literally, all around me. It was a subtle, sensitive production, with credible characters, not parodies or buffoons; with households that made sense in terms of structure and community; relationships which rang true and bitterness which ran deep; and in the midst of it all an extraordinary, hysterically funny, heartbreaking, jaw-dropping, entirely emotionally coherent Olivia. …And for a coda (as if Feste’s song is not enough, as if the Globe tradition of ending with a jig was not more than enough).. we were visited by old Christmas and the Green Man to wassail the theatre in a mad, moving, pagan moment to mark Twelfth Night. Mark Rylance, I salute you.

‘I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever oft good turns are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay’.

Extraordinary.