I like to imagine that I only have 10 standing ovations in me.

I picture them stored in my chest on a carousel, waiting to be deployed.

I used one of them when I saw Michael Boyd’s complete History Cycle at the RSC. I used another after seeing Anthony Sher as Cyrano. And I used one on Monday for the ensemble cast of My Neighbour Totoro which was the most spectacular thing I think I’ve ever seen on a stage.

Standing ovations are precious things, is my point. Not to be given out lightly. They are a mark of respect from the audience to the performers. They are the ultimate expression of the applause that any production receives at the end of the night.

Applause is the capstone on the contract between audience and cast.

The one that runs something like:

“We will sit here quietly in the dark. We will not draw attention to ourselves. We will try not to do all the things that a large body of people normally does excessively - chat, cough, cry out, answer back or post pictures to Instagram. In return, you will transport us to another world, tell us stories and maybe teach us something.

sometimes we will laugh or gasp but only at appropriate moments”

So when we applaud, it isn’t just in recognition of the work, it’s a signal that the theatrical contact is over and we can return to making Tiktoks again.

It’s a good system. Everyone knows what’s expected of them.

But it’s actually a lot more complicated than that.

Because the audience are the co-creators of the show. And their applause, laughter and general noise-making shape the manner in which the play is performed.

I think this is true of all theatrical work but it is especially true of improv.

Improvisers are artistically nimble. We can turn on a pin head in response to outside stimuli. An off-hand remark can become a major plot point if it gets a rapturous response. An incidental character can find themselves pulled into the limelight if they become the audience’s favourite.

Those are extreme examples but actually any improv show is a constant, evolving conversation between players and audience members. Every sigh, every murmur of appreciation or distaste are micro-signals to the cast. The show that is performed has as much to do with the people sitting in the auditorium as it does the people standing on the stage. And that goes way beyond the traditional suggestions we take at the start.

An audience charges the air ionically with their expectations and values. The things they enjoy, the subjects they’d rather you avoid. A good improviser is sensitive to these signals. You don’t have to necessarily pander to them, but it’s always helpful to be aware of them. They are often far more subtle than laughs and groans.

As improvisers, our first commitment should be to our scene partner, but our next most important relationship is with the audience. So we need to work at forging a connection with them. To listen and respond in kind. Let us not forget those beautiful moments where everyone in the room - performers, team mates and audience members alike - all work out what’s really happening in the scene at the same time. Those have been the most joyful and deeply felt reactions I’ve ever experienced in any theatrical medium.

I remember the first time I saw a long form improv show. It was Baby Wants Candy at the Edinburgh Fringe in 2001 and it was special. The team seemed so connected - to us and each other - I knew right then, in the very core of my being, that this was something I wanted to pursue for the rest of my life. It was that simple - I already felt a part of it, that my presence in the room mattered. Unquestionably, by being there, I was helping to make this magical, unique thing happen.

And when it ended, without a conscious thought, I was on my feet cheering.