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someone whose main experience had been in television. Up until that point in the production, David J. Girton had abnegated his directorial responsibilities to Bernard Walton and the rest of his cast. But the decisions he faced now were technical rather than artistic, and he needed someone else to whom he could abnegate these new burdens.
    Luckily for David J. Girton, the perfect person on whom to offload all such matters was conveniently to hand. He was the company manager, the one who had explained to Bernard Walton the necessity of a Tuesday press night. His name was Tony Delaunay, and he had worked for Parrott Fashion Productions for years. He was small, with short blonded hair, and always dressed in a black suit which somehow gave the impression of being more casual than a suit.
    Tony Delaunay had run more touring productions than most people – though obviously not David J. Girton – had had hot dinners. He was a creature of the theatre, who’d worked as a scene shifter while still at school. In his late teens, he’d tried to make it as an actor in a variety of low-budget London productions, before recognising that his skills lay on the technical side. He had graduated through the ranks of assistant stage manager, deputy stage manager and stage manager to take on ever more responsibility. He could do lighting plots, he could build sets, he could pacify local stage crews, he could mollify furious designers and wardrobe mistresses, he could mediate between stingy managements and poverty-stricken actors. He had saved the bacon of Parrott Fashion Productions on more occasions than he cared to remember. He was the all-purpose theatrical Mr Fixit, and nothing surprised him.
    So, effectively taking over the technical direction of a new Bill Blunden farce from a Director whose main expertise was in television presented no problems to Tony Delaunay.
    But he didn’t crow. He didn’t rub in the fact that the show’s designated director was incompetent. Tony Delaunay had no ego; he was the ultimate pragmatist.
Not On Your Wife!
was due to open to a paying audience on the Tuesday night. Parrott Fashion Productions paid him to ensure that that happened, and Tony Delaunay would see that it did.
    David J. Girton quickly recognised his good fortune in having the company manager there to do all his work for him, and arranged his own movements on the Monday accordingly. Deciding, with some justification, that a director couldn’t be of much use during the get-in, he had appeared in the Vanbrugh Theatre at noon to see how things were proceeding. Comforted by the fact that Tony Delaunay had everything in hand, David J. Girton decided to slip away for ‘a little drink and a bite to eat’. And, since he was in Bath, after a couple of ‘little drinks’, he decided his lunch had better take place at the Hole in the Wall restaurant.
    After lunch, he felt so exhausted, he slipped back to his hotel to put his feet up for a few minutes. He didn’t know much about lighting, anyway. He’d only get under the lighting director’s and Tony Delaunay’s feet if he was in the theatre. The art of directing, after all, was the art of delegation. Respect the individual skills of all the members of your team, and you become a well-respected director. That had been David J. Girton’s approach in television, and it had worked well enough for him there. It had also perfectly suited his natural indolence.
    When he returned to the Vanbrugh Theatre, around four-thirty, he found that Tony Delaunay and the lighting director had finished their plotting, and that the entire company was ready for the tech. run to begin. David J. Girton gave them a few rousing words of the ‘Have a good show’ variety, and allowed Tony Delaunay to start the run. Then, rather than slowing the process down by interfering – he had always prided himself on being a minimalist director – David J. Girton sat