I’m writing this on the final day of our three-week season of Balloon Dog at Q Theatre in Auckland. Here’s an excerpt from the introduction I wrote for this month’s Q newsletter:

“Fun fact: the fear of balloons is known as globophobia. I’m a sufferer. Every time Sam, our tour manager, starts twisting a balloon dog into existence before the show, I have to leave the room.”

Last night, as I stood backstage doing my pre-show checks and making sure all my props were in place, I glanced down and saw three weeks’ worth of discarded balloon dogs scattered across the floor in various stages of deflation.

I’m not sure why Sam doesn’t throw them away. Maybe it’s some kind of aversion therapy designed to cure my globophobia.

Anyway, it seems to be working.

There’s something strangely beautiful about that colourful pile of slightly sad dogs. Theatre is so ephemeral. It exists for a moment and then it’s gone – like a shooting star, a snowflake, or childhood. Each balloon dog lives for a single performance surviving only in the memories of the audience who came that night. The response to the show has been rapturous and that makes its impermanence even more precious.

We’ll be making more memories at the Sydney Opera House next week and leaving a small trail of melancholy balloon dogs in our wake.