The Talent never spoke to Sophie Pattison. They didn’t notice her, or they didn’t appear to as she mic’d them up for stage. With a few minutes left, the authors were preparing to go out there, mentally. Sophie understood that and she respected it. Also, it was dark in the wings and everyone on the production team wore black, which made all of them easy to miss.

It was crazy though, that somebody wouldn’t even turn around to see who was unzipping their dress or tugging a small amount of shirt out of their trousers, then working her hand up to hide the – as a white person, Sophie was careful never to describe the cables as skin-coloured, although the festival roster sometimes seemed as white as ever it was, which was so sad – to hide the salmon-coloured cable that connected the battery unit to the headset and did not need to be so long. Sophie often thought that – seriously, why are these cables so long? – as she tried to tuck some length under the author’s bra strap without being annoying or dropping the battery pack, which would dangle to the floor. Retrieving it, Sophie always found herself kneeling at the Talent’s feet while they looked beyond the heavy curtains to the stage, working out where they would be sitting in relation to the moderator, oblivious to her personhood.

Occasionally, Sophie made that observation about the cables to another member of the production team once the author had walked on and everyone could relax, except the two guys on desk who had to be very much ‘on’ the entire time. Standing shoulder to shoulder with another tech in the darkness of the wings, Sophie would shake a breath mint soundlessly into her hand and whisper, ‘Those cables are such a nightmare,’ and, offering the pocket tin, add in an even lower voice, ‘Why are they three feet long?’ And whoever it was would silently indicate yes to the mint and to all intents and purposes mouth the words, ‘I know. It’s mental.’