It’s helpful to imagine a coterie of assistants who must coax the maestro into his luxury crate and on to the next musical directorship, wherever that might be, passing through a sorting warehouse where boxed soloists and chloroformed conductors drowsily wave from conveyer belts.

His eyes only reopen when he’s shoved through the stage door, the adrenaline from the applause wiping out whatever drugs still course in his system, and then what? oh, this again, until the final applause sees him off clearheaded into the wings where they are waiting for him with the familiar-smelling sack.