The second sort of escapologist is the sort that doesn’t panic. They touch the water and relax, as if just now realising where they truly want to be. They never feel afraid, even when perhaps they should, and when they do escape they wait just a moment below the surface of the water, saying goodbye. This sort of escapologist tends not to be very successful commercially, because their contentedness in the tank disturbs the audience. The whole premise of escapology as a show is that death is something to be scared of, and the rush you get from watching is about survival and life. There’s a small but noticeable statistical hike in pregnancies after a high-profile escapology act comes to town. The second sort of escapologist doesn’t provide that rush. Instead, he or she invites a placid contemplation of mortality that is nowhere on the razzle-dazzle shopping list and which will certainly not get you laid. Audiences come out of the theatre sober and chilled, and a little while later they make life changes and spend more time with the people they love. It doesn’t sell.