I've been doing a little project with my 11-year-old son, Charlie: we're canoeing from the source of the Thames to the Houses of Parliament. It's taken us three years so far, and we're only half way.
As soon as I walk down that sticky six-mile patterned carpet that welcomes you at Heathrow, I buy the Sunday papers and read the fashion supplements cover to cover. Even though hardly a single word in them seems directed at any male who ever lived, I find them compulsive reading.
In our culture, good looks are so important, and today he'd head straight for a plastic surgeon, but in Cyrano's time, the nose was who he was, and it didn't matter that he was a brilliant poet, a brilliant swordsman, a brilliant man. His nose defined him.
While I was in 'Inadmissible Evidence' at the Donmar, I was mugged at the HSBC ATM on Shaftesbury Avenue. I grabbed one of the men, and when the police arrived, they put both me and him against a wall until they worked out which of us was the criminal.
