When I was 12, I made a flimsy Wicked book out of sheets of paper and flyers I had found during a holiday. I spent days painstakingly filling this book with every single lyric from memory. I suppose I wanted something that was mine. Something that I could look at and hold and keep forever. Something that would externalise the pure, all-encompassing love I felt for this musical.

And that’s not all. I also cut up a poster from a magazine and made a makeshift cover for my first phone (a chunky little Nokia flip, to be precise). And, of course, on every family car journey, I begged my parents to put on the soundtrack so that my sister and I could belt out the songs just one more time.

When I finally saw the show in 2006, I did some internet sleuthing afterwards (I was very ahead of my time), found the email address of the understudy who had played Glinda and sent her a giddy message about how the performance had changed my life. And, of course, I spent months on end wishing and praying for a film adaptation.

“I loved Wicked as a kid – and the film made me more nostalgic for the past than ever”