David Lane’s play takes the form of a first person, present tense narration of the descent towards psychological collapse of a complex and troubled personality. In lesser hands the fact-into-conceit of this subject might have produced little more than a depressingly parochial chronology-cum-travelogue, but the direction Lane has taken gives us a credible exploration of an area of personal (and to a lesser extent social) identity as it affects a damaged personality. The bald facts of Svetlana Alliluyeva’s life are a matter of record; the defection, the marriages, the time in America and the subsequent British citizenship.

Is it possible to make the world a fairer place? “A sympathy for the poor does not change the life of the poor,” the narrator of The Fever tells us toward the end of her 90 minute monologue. “Artists who create works of art that inspire sympathy and good values do not change the life of the poor.” Being forced to confront the question of equality and what we tell ourselves is the inherent injustice of the world, having just had a nice dinner, with a comfortable bed waiting at home, makes sitting on that cushioned theatre seat a little less comfortable.