In the 1980s there was a popular watering hole on Sydney’s Lower North Shore called The Plum. Its popularity with a largely male clientele had nothing to do with its very average wine list or its very average menu but was due entirely to the fact that its barmaids and waitresses were topless. Almost forty years later, the same leafy Kirribilli corner is an even more popular eat-and-drinkery because the food it serves is good, the wine is excellent, and all the staff are fully clothed. But when I went there last week I found myself thinking wistfully about their 1980s counterparts, because I had just seen a production of Harold Pinter’s The Lovers at the nearby Ensemble Theatre, and as well as feeling peckish I was also feeling a bit, well, cheated. Speccie readers familiar with the Pinter oeuvre might know that the stage directions of The Lovers do not call for the removal of a sock, let alone toplessness. But I didn’t, and on arrival at the theatre I compounded my ignorance by buying a program and noticing, alongside the usual flattering mugshots of the cast and director, a photograph of the Intimacy Coordinator. Crikey, I thought, as I made my way into the tiny auditorium. You old dog, Harold, I thought, as I settled into a seat three metres from the stage and assumed the position. If the Ensemble’s management has seen fit to engage the services of an Intimacy Coordinator, I reasoned, getting hit by flying thespian spit was going to be the least of my worries tonight. And I clearly wasn’t alone in this; the breathless hush which fell over the audience as the house lights dimmed had a sexual charge which seemed more than justified when one of the eponymous lovers, played by the imperiously beautiful Nicola Da Silva, strode onto the set. And then, after we had all braced ourselves for an evening of full-frontal coital confrontation… nothing happened! Or next to nothing. In the entire course of the play, the male and female leads made bodily contact no more than three or four times, and on none of those occasions were there less than two layers of artfully chosen fabric between them. In the interest of (ahem) full disclosure, I should say that it is not unknown for your correspondent to nod off during even the most explosive theatrical event. Ever since I slept through the battle scene of Sir Peter Hall’s production of Henry V, I have known that God doesn’t want me for a drama critic. So as we left the theatre, wary of doing an injustice to the writer and director of this play, I asked the people I was with if they had seen something I’d missed. Specifically, any cast interaction which warranted the attention of an Intimacy Coordinator. And we all agreed that the only bit which might have ticked this box was the bit when the husband stood briefly behind his spouse and hugged her, a movement which might conceivably have caused one of his admittedly naked hands to brush against one of her tastefully coutured breasts. But you can judge for yourself the erotic potential of this tableau because there’s a photograph of it on the relevant page of The Ensemble Theatre’s website. Along with another photograph of the woman whose job it is to ensure that the performance of this completely innocent and (direction note) slightly awkward gesture does not leave the man who performed it vulnerable to the kind of accusation which derailed the careers of Craig McLachlan and Geoffrey Rush. I like to think that I bow to no one in my support for women’s rights. I am all in favour of regulations and protocols which prevent the exploitation and abuse of women in the workplace, and I am glad that the market for topless waitress restaurants in Australia has greatly diminished in recent decades. But to feature an Intimacy Coordinator in the promotion of a play whose intimacy content consists of a single fully dressed hug seems to me to make as much sense as featuring the tuba player in the promotion of a performance of Dvorak’s Ninth Symphony, in which, as everybody knows, the tuba has a total of 14 notes. As an advertising man, moreover, I can’t help thinking that featuring an Intimacy Coordinator in the promotion of a play conspicuously devoid of intimacy is no more than a disingenuous and cynical sales ploy. So if anyone from the Ensemble is reading this, can I have my money back?