I wouldn’t describe myself as a huge theatre-goer. When it comes to plays, I sometimes wonder if Hugh Grant got it right: ‘going to the theatre is enjoyable about one time in 20. Let's get to the end of it and have a drink’. All that projecting and positioning towards the fourth wall is a bit wearing, the seats are uncomfortable, the view generally poor unless you’ve spent £400, and those drinks you so look forward to cost £12 a pop. Jerusalem for example. I was so bored, only perking up when they piped the smell of bacon into the audience. But I could have recreated that in my own kitchen, for a fraction of the price, without Mark Rylance shouting at me. I’m also left uneasy by the sea of white faces in the audience. White faces, and grey hair. Posh old people are really the only ones who can afford to go, and I don’t really want to go with them, be one of them.

That said, a few times a year, I go to the theatre and tend to manage about 3 out of 4 in terms of enjoyment. I usually choose something big and trendy that everyone wants to see, or something that friends are involved in. Last year, I saw a gorgeous candlelit Macbeth at the Globe, and a lovely re-imagining of A Christmas Carol in Wilton’s Musical Hall that left me punching the air. I adored Come From Away, and was gobsmacked by a certain song in Girl from the North Country. Over the years, it’s become clear I have a penchant for the musical side of theatre. I have tremendous admiration for those sexy people who can belt out a tune, stick to a routine and act at the same time; who have such splendid control of their bodies and vocal chords. Seeing a big, live chorus is the ultimate thrill – the righteous, scrupulous boom of it leaves me helpless. But nothing has ever left me as high, choked and broken as Hamilton. Enjoyable doesn’t cover it.

Hamilton was one of those shows everyone went on about – ‘oh you must go’, so we went, and for the first ten minutes I didn’t know what the hell was going on, and felt my heart sink. To be the one person who didn’t get it, didn’t appreciate it – how humiliating. But then, all of a sudden, something slotted into place - I found I could keep up with the rapid-fire rap, then it seemed somehow I already knew all the songs, and after that I was lost, completely enthralled and transported. Staggering out of the theatre afterwards, I vowed to go back and watch it again. It didn’t happen, though I did listen to the soundtrack obsessively and looked up Alexander Hamilton on Wikipedia.

Then everything closed, so I couldn’t go even if I was prepared to fork out. Throughout lockdown, that was one of the things I kept coming back to - how much I missed the theatre (fuck Hugh Grant, he’s wrong), and how I’d love to watch Hamilton again. And then it came up on Disney+, so I made a stiff cocktail and sat down in the best seat in the house, to rewind and remind myself what I loved about that show.

GOD, IT IS SO GOOD. The verbal dexterity, the pageantry, the precision – Shakespearean in its ambition and reach. Those glorious segues from aggressive rap battle, to swelling, thunderous chorus, tapering into the heart-breaking clarity and passion of ‘Satisfied’. As I stood and clapped at the end of every number, my husband started to edge away from me on the sofa, eyes sidling. Maybe my cocktail was a bit too stiff.

Having never watched a streamed performance before, I worried it would be an uneasy mix – neither the theatrical immediacy of the moment, nor the tight intimacy of filming. But the production manages a deft blend of staginess and spectacle in the big numbers, alongside close camerawork when required. We see Angelica’s longing in lingering detail, as well as King George’s contemptuous spittle. It was, all in all, a triumph. My husband and I watched the two hours and forty minutes over a weekend, handily using the intermission to break it up. I could pause the action to go to the toilet, replenish my drink, check on a wailing child. There were no annoying tall heads in the way, no tube journey home, no £400 bill (+ booze), no babysitters to pay.

And yet… It just wasn’t the same as the real thing. I couldn’t sense the bated breath of a hundred onlookers around me, join in with the roar of approving laughter at the line ‘Immigrants, we get the job done.’ Smell the smoke as Hamilton’s wife burns her love letters. See tears roll down other cheeks as Alexander and Eliza mourn the death of their son. Be part of a rousing ovation. The collective experience of watching a live show is electric, unifying, empowering - and nothing else leaves you as satisfied.

That’s what I miss. The knowledge that all around the country, that’s what people are doing, together. Even if I’m not there to see it, even if the show doesn’t interest me, I want to know that there’s a live audience somewhere, captured and enraptured in the moment. I want to be able to be in the room where it happens, whenever the fancy takes me. From panto to Pinter, even if the show is rubbish, I want it to go on.

We’re living with the unimaginable, theatres collapsing around us; a whole, vibrant, enriching, vital industry on the edge. Right now, it’s quiet uptown, those beautiful old buildings boarded and shuttered for the first time in decades – and it could be for decades, if we’re not careful. The government has finally put together a £1.5 billion rescue package, but there is the sense that, unlike pubs and banks, they don’t see the worth of theatre, the arts, beyond the money. Now, in this hour of need, we mustn’t allow them to forget. The pledge must be honoured, the money spent – wisely.

This could be an opportunity for a reboot. We shouldn’t just be saving the theatres – we should be saving them, and subsidising them massively, making sure everyone can afford to see Hamilton, and Macbeth, and Jerusalem, and everything else they want to see. We should be supporting the acting profession, ensuring it’s open to all, rather than skewed towards the few who can afford drama school fees and uncertain employment. In 2019, there was a story about a West End performer who was forced to sleep under a bridge because he was unable to find affordable accommodation. Picture your Aaron Burr, or Lafayette, taking a bow and then sleeping on the street. How can we value the arts if we don’t value the artists, the audience?

Let’s not waste our shot. Throw money at it, open our arms wide, and see what happens. Watch as the stars emerge – the actors, writers, directors, and crew – and see the theatre industry rise from the ashes, bigger and better than ever before.

They’ll blow us all away. Even Hugh Grant.

• Hamilton, streaming on Disney+