I don’t know what it was. Maybe getting to finally “stop” and have nothing to worry about. Maybe the relief at the wee ones being here and enjoying them splashing around in puddles on a wet and windy day.
Whatever it was, when we sat down to watch the National Theatre’s Dick Whittington pantomime, I found tears suddenly leaking down my face and no, it wasn’t because it was terrible or that I was caught up by the emotional beats and socio-political commentary on Dick’s rise to the top from humble beginnings.
I think it was the sheer joy, life, vibrancy and colour that burst forth from the screen. I think it was seeing a bunch of actors normally at home with tactility and being in each other’s personal space, now forced to adapt and social distance within the confines of a creatively lit and used stage.
Maybe it was the mini epiphany that I’d missed performing more than I was aware of, prompted by this defiant, family-friendly “f*ck you” to Covid.
Maybe it was the reminder of how important the arts and theatre (yes, even a pantomime) are in taking us away from ourselves and making us feel and/or see things differently, even for a little while.