Edward
It had been three long years since I last saw Jonathan Wakefield and we had only ever spent a few weeks together. Yet, somehow, it felt like seeing an old and dear friend when I spotted him in the audience at the Alhambra.
He was underdressed, yet somehow still wore his ensemble better than many of the socialites surrounding him. Given that he had his travel kit with him, it appeared that he must have come straight from the train station, fulfilling a deep and abiding hope of mine that he would stop over in London for a nightcap before traveling home to Norwich.
The only problem was that his presence made it exceptionally difficult to perform without distraction. With every sequential illusion, I kept my eyes on him, watching how he narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow; how he
