As I was writing this, I realised that everyone seems to focus on the perfect image, instead of perfect imperfection. This is my slighgtly choatic desk, it has been worse. There is a strange moment at the end of a busy season when you look at the calendar and realise that the great, roaring beast you have been riding for months has finally begun to slow down. For weeks, perhaps months, life has been measured in departure times, flight numbers, hotel rooms, sound checks, stage calls and...

It began, as so many good conversations do, over a cup of coffee and a story. I was sitting with an old friend. A magician. One of those rare souls who has spent more of his life standing in front of strangers than sitting behind a desk. His hands have forgotten more sleight of hand than most magicians will ever learn, and his eyes carry that unmistakable look of someone who has lived a life entertaining people rather than simply performing tricks. We spoke of old festivals, impossible...

There is a peculiar silence that only creative people seem to understand. It isn't the silence of an empty room or a woodland at dawn. It's the silence that settles inside your own head. The stories are still there somewhere. The ideas haven't packed their bags and disappeared into the night. The projects are sitting patiently on the shelf. The costumes are hanging ready. The notebooks are stacked beside the desk. The microphone waits in the booth. You know exactly what needs to be done, and...