Walked over to the Guthrie to see The Mousetrap, a play that’s inexplicably been running in London since 1952 (my mum fell asleep during it 70-odd years ago). I asked Dwight to have an elbow ready to prevent me from continuing the family tradition. By the intermission, he was ready to doze off but he had deduced the identity of the murderer. In keeping with the play’s tradition, we were asked to maintain the secret.
