The fourteen hours you are not supposed to notice.

Trucks leave the workshop in build order — structure first, finish last. Every crate is labelled to a zone on the floor plan, so nothing is opened twice.

Chalk lines on grass. The floor plan is walked at full scale before a single frame goes up — aisle widths, seat rows, the path from car to chair.

Stage decks, pavilion frames, rigging points. This is loud, unbeautiful, mathematical work, and it decides whether the evening will hold.

Conditioned stems come out of water and onto the bench. Installation begins from the top of the set downwards, so nothing finished is stood on.

Twelve kilometres away the kitchen is already deep in prep. Curries base out, breads proof, the pass is set to the written order of service.

The gaffer walks the room with a meter. Faces first, set second. Every fixture is aimed at the height a person will actually stand, not at the floor.

Linen, cutlery, candles, place settings. Tables are levelled with shims. Cables are buried. The last hour of the build is entirely about removing evidence of the build.

Ten minutes with the lights at show level and nobody in it. The whole crew walks it once, silently, looking for the one thing that is wrong.

Crew move to the edges and become invisible. From here everything is service — greeting, seating, timing, hot plates, fresh stems, and a floor that stays clear.

We do not begin strike while a family is still standing on the lawn. When the last car leaves, the room goes back into crates in reverse order — and the mulberry tree gets its branches back.