On the plane back home. There is a safety instruction video showing a men’s football team (it might be Manchester United, I’m not sure, I’m not the least interested in football, or in the bodies of men playing football, so I don’t really find it essential to remember) playing with the safety devices accompanied by a song whose only text (repeated over and over again) is: We are Turkish Airlines. We are globally yours. The flight will take almost twenty-four hours, including a stop in Istanbul. I’m exhausted. It feels like I’m leaving the world. Or like I’m going back to the world. To what I’m used to. It feels like I’ve spent the past week in another sort of reality than what I’m used to. I have a feeling of unreality, I do no longer know what is real.

I have written a minimum of twenty plays for children.  From a child’s perspective, but with a mature artist’s complete battery of considerations and decisions. All the aesthetic decisions, the gender conscious, the provocative, the self-censoring (Please no! – The bad reviews!) the pedagogical (shame on you!!). Important decisions. Insane decisions. We’re even serious when we’re joking, that’s the way it is with humorists. We break taboos, we destroy clichés, we hate any adult who lets them down, lets the children down.  And we do it alone, because there are few forums in which we can share our experiences. Share the criteria that define our work. We know them. Those of us who create artistic, quality theatre for children know them