But the theatre was beginning to reflect more accurately the drama of everyday life after the war, and the success of plays like Look Back in Anger and the "Kitchen Sink" realism of ordinary language pushed verse plays into a category of their own and even the successful adaptations of plays by Anouilh and Giraudoux which combine poetry and surrealism could not stop the theatre as a whole remaining firmly committed to prose.

So there I was, doing my best to keep verse plays alive in the Cathedral. The audiences had been disappointed and the atrocious weather that year was no help. To a very modest audience, sitting uncomfortably in the heavy pews, I was reaching the final moments of A Sleep of Prisoners and I had wandered down the main aisle to stand amongst the congregation. As demanded by the text, I awoke and looked around at the congregation. My first words on awakening were - as far as I can remember - "Where am I and what has happened?" To which a little, elderly lady sitting on the end of the pew replied in the crisp accent of Edinburgh "Well, if you don't know, I'm sure I can't help you!" The laughter was discreet, but totally deflating.

That moment, however embarrassing, taught me a valuable lesson I have never forgotten: don't assume that you have the right to demand that the audience listens and if they don't understand they should remain ignorant. I am not suggesting we should encourage unnecessary comments or interruptions - actors in Shakespeare's time had to put up with noblemen commenting loudly on the action from the wings and the tradesmen selling refreshments to the audience in the pit! But it can be enormously refreshing to have an audience so closely attentive and involved that they are swept along with the action. In a production of West Side Story I was directing some years ago, when Chino confronted Tony with a gun before shooting him, a young girl in the audience screamed out "No! Don't do it!" No one laughed. The suspense was intolerable, but the young actor playing Chino glanced into the audience, then pulled the trigger.

Audiences have become far too submissive and rarely express their true feelings until after the show. Why shouldn't we reduce the audience to tears or to making appropriate comments as well as creating laughter and applause. It seems that the only legitimate place for audience participation is at the pantomime when the responses are artificially encouraged and the result is audience anarchy. I am aware that giving the audience too much freedom of expression could be dangerous. There's the moment at the end of a rather tedious production of Waiting for Godot when Estragon says "Yes, let's go" when I heard a voice in the stalls say, "I couldn't agree more!" And one of my treasured memories is that of a know-all stage hand who, when he discovered that the pistol to be used on stage was faulty, insisted that the best pistol shot effect was to hit a metal plate with a one pound hammer. Came the moment when the gun was levelled at the villain and the trigger was pulled. There was a dead thud as the know-all, holding down the metal plate, hit his thumb. The scream of agony followed by the exclamation "F*** it!" rang round the auditorium and three ladies in the front two seats shouted "Missed!" The audience applauded them with hysterical laughter.

I don't like these fashionable talk-outs after the show. They tend to be nervous affairs with the actors wanting to go home, the audience worrying about the last bus or the baby-sitter and the director trying hard to explain his raison d'être without sounding pretentious. Far better to rely on the audience's response as the curtain falls. So, let's hear it for the audience!

Ray Dyer