About ten years ago I found a puppet builder on Instagram who worked for the Bill Benson company. He specialised in making the Ducks. That was his thing. I thought that was genuinely cool, and we got talking.
At some point I mentioned I was planning a short trip to New York with a mate. And then I got cheeky. I asked if he'd be working on Cadabra Road around that time. He said yes. Then he asked if I'd like to visit.
My heart stopped.
The idea that I was going to set foot on that set — something I'd grown up watching — was almost too much to process. I'd finally found the way to Sesame Street.
We arrived in New York. The lead went quiet. We still had a good time — it's New York, you're never short of something — but there was a low hum of disappointment underneath everything. There was a Bill Benson exhibition on, which helped. Seeing all those large, colourful puppets behind glass. Worth the trip in itself, almost.
On the second to last day, a message came through. Really sorry. Filming had stopped for reasons he couldn't get into. I was crushed. But I filed it under "everything happens for a reason" and tried to move on.
We had a bit more of a chat and he mentioned there was a puppet show running in lower Manhattan. Said he'd worked on it. Produced by the daughter of the late Bill Benson himself. I checked the time. My flight wasn't until late afternoon. I could make it.
So I went.
It was about climate change. People dressed as flamingos, prancing about the stage. The message, as best I could distil it: if you're going to throw your plastic can carriers into their pond, cut the rings first — otherwise the flamingos get their heads stuck and die. Important information, delivered with all the subtlety of a children's TV segment that had somehow been given a theatre budget.
That was the moment I understood that the Benson company had more money than sense.
The sixty-something daughter seemed absolutely delighted with the whole thing. Fair enough. I was less so. The last few hours of my time in New York were disappointing, to put it mildly. But I suppose that's the city. It builds you up and then sends you home on a slightly deflated note, just to keep things interesting.