I appear to be lucky today. I scamper beaming across the stage towards three very tidy looking Avo 72 way racks, to be greeted with smiles and a copy of my own plot. There's an endless view over undulating hills of vines and olive groves to distant mountains. Eager stagehands joyfully push colour into Parcans and sing simple folk songs whilst dusky maidens offer me cold beer and food. I fall at his feet as he shows me the trusted old Celco 90 way desk, in the shade, ready to program blind.
Today is good.
Focus is a distant memory and I've long since whacked a show in the desk. I'm now fiddling with the smoke machine, looking for things to do. Two minutes later the rig goes off. But not smoke from the exhaust. In fact, smoke from everywhere but the exhaust.