This performance is all movement and music. My affair with the Pinter almost ended after going to see the Seagull, poorly acted out in a pinewood box with a couple of plastic chairs for props. But this re-ignited my love. The actors used the entire stage, including the audience boxes to either side; the balcony at the back of the stage added depth, the hanging window helped distinguish between the two major timelines of the story. The ward doors, the autopsy table – all simple and yet creating that theatre magic.

But the true magic came in the form of the violin and cello players and the ballet dancers. The stage fills with undulating, pulsating, vibrating movement that gets fiercer and more intense as the main character’s psychotic break approaches. It reminds me of the Rite of Spring with its building frenzy that the string artists contribute towards. It is so intense that at times I forget to listen to what is being said.

Because, in a way, the storyline seems to take a back seat in all of this. It is hardly a mystery – the audience knows what is killing the mothers, we are not waiting for the great reveal. So it feels ok to sit there and enjoy the whirling ghosts haunting the hero without becoming too engrossed in the dialogue or the quality acting.

But then, after some time has passed, you might start to wonder – does it take a madman to care about women? Why had no one really bothered about the high mortality rates? Why was it not enough that washing hands helped, even if the reason of the outcome was not fully understood? And are things different now?

At face value – yes – look at the sudden outburst of information about the menopause being blasted out from everywhere and menstruation guides on company websites. Progress? Call me a sceptic, but feels more like yet another way to talk about how inferior women are to men – either menstruating, maternity-leaving, mothering or menopausal…