When I mentioned to a work colleague I was going to see “Frank and Percy” that evening, they asked what the play was about. “I don’t quite know,” I responded, “but I could watch Sir Ian McKellen drink tea for two hours, and it would make me happy.”

And in a way, it turned out that this is kind of what the play was – watching two older men meet, talk and drink. There were no dramatic speeches, no eureka moments, no earth-shattering revelations. There were moments of pure humour and laughter, moments of reflections and sadness, moments of introspection – but barely a story line to keep the audience captivated. And yet captivated the audience was.

Why? Because of the spectacular acting. I had never heard of Pontefract cakes, but having seen Sir Ian eat one on stage, it is highly unlikely I will ever try one. The faces he pulled were enough to convince me that this is not something I would ever want to experience. Everything that happened on stage was purposeful, it was full on, it was constant. There might have not been much of a story, but I am certain it would be a challenge to find a single person who did not fully believe that the story was truly unfolding between the two actors.

A story about loneliness, about being set in your ways, about love lost and love found, about dignity and getting old, about continuing to learn something about yourself till the very end, a story about how much we yearn to be touched and held by another human being. And a story about forgiveness and letting go – it is so easy to choose to stay offended, that sometimes we forget we only harm ourselves if we are unable to accept an apology.

I left the theatre strangely uplifted, thinking that it is never too late for so many things in life.