At the end of the day it all comes down to the acting, and Waiting for Godot has certainly provided another feast in the new West End revival starring Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart, with not inconsiderable contributions from Simon Callow and Ronald Pickup.

When the casting was announced I feared the worst. A lot of acting in that one, I thought, probably too much. And then Simon, too! But Stewart is wonderfully restrained and compliant as Vladimir, while McKellen is touching, funny and sad, not remotely self-conscious (as he can be) as Estragon. And Callow’s Pozzo is the best since….good grief, probably Paul Curran’s.

And that dates me. But like Hamlet, you never forget your first, and my first Godot was at the Royal Court in 1964, with Nicol Williamson and Alfred Lynch, Paul Curran and Jack McGowran as an electrifying, terrifying and terrified  Lucky (Ronald Pickup goes down a different road completely as the new West End Lucky, lyrical and resigned, a counterpart, really, to Stewart’s Vladimir).

That Court Godot was directed by Anthony Page, who is responsible for the new production on Broadway starring Nathan Lane and Bill Irwin, with the mountainous John Goodman — now fully off the booze and still only 54, apparently — as Pozzo.

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It’s always a good idea not to drive anywhere over the Bank Holiday weekend so I was in no mood to mind very much about having to spend much of it inside theatres.

My only regret was that the fine weather disappeared on Monday morning, putting the dampeners on one of my favourite extra curricular activities, painting a garden wall white.   

Still, there was plenty of time to check out the greatest free flower show in London, the rhododendrons at Kenwood House on the heath, which have burst forth in a riotous profusion of pinks, reds and oranges, with plenty more to come.

If only that vividness was shared by the design team of Wuthering Heights at the Lyric, Hammersmith, a truly wretched Asian transplant of Emily Bronte’s novel that is undeservedly playing to packed audiences. The Saturday matinee crowd was patient beyond belief with this badly acted travesty and even stayed to applaud. Amazing.

I was soon out of there and heading for the river at Richmond before sampling the mechanical dryness of Michel Vinaver’s Factors Unforeseen at the Orange Tree. The translation from the French is by Catherine Crimp, Martin’s daughter.

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I’m all for entering into the mood of a show, but things went a bit too far when I turned up at the Menier Chocolate Factory for Terry Johnson’s spirited production of Rookery Nook, the priceless Ben Travers farce.

Visiting the loo as a precautionary measure before curtain up, I clenched my ticket between my teeth as my arms and pockets were otherwise engaged with books, papers, and the matter immediately in hand.

A colleague and friend — Express feature writer David Robson — took up his station next to mine at the urinal. He said something. I opened my mouth to reply and dropped my ticket in the trough.

The passport to farcical paradise swirled around briefly in the amber waters before I rescued it smartly and embarked on a Mr Bean routine of rinsing it out and holding it under the hand dryer while not trying to give the impression of being too weird, not to say utterly peculiar.

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