A friend texts. We had met briefly at the recent Arthur Miller revival Death of a Salesman at the Glasgow Pavilion, and she wants to compare notes on this story of the suicidal rep who loses his job, his sons and his mind. “I was hoping he’d use the rubber pipe in the first act,” she messages, referencing the plumbing hose with which Willy Loman was planning his exit.

Well, I laughed – but it was mostly in relief to be honest. The play tells of a broken Brooklyn family, a story of wrecked dreams and thwarted ambitions. It’s a declarative narrative set over a 24-hour period that suggests life is little more than the survival-years between being born and dying. And it felt like it was being played out in real time.

This was the second Miller I’d seen in two weeks (A View from A Bridge, at the Tron) and towards the end of each performance I found myself asking, “How much enjoyment can I gain from watching a man break-down? Can I have any sympathy for blokes like Willy and Eddie who live to their death in a world of delusion?” And, perhaps most importantly, “Will the pizza shop on Clarence Drive still be serving?”

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The Miller plays, Salesman in particular, evoked a memory from a few years back of a Citizens production of Eugene O’Neill’s A Long Day’s Journey Into Night.........

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