At my first interview for the role, I was told that “being a producer is like being an architect. The play’s the building. No, it’s more like being  the miner. Getting the material. Scratch that, they’re the foreman. Organising the team.”

Odd metaphors aside, the producer is vital – almost every Cambridge production has at least one. Part of the appeal is the people you end up meeting, working and drinking with. It’s an easy way to get involved in the immersive world of the theatre without surrendering vast amounts of your time, and after all the organisation, you’re able to relax in the auditorium on the opening night and be proud of what you’ve helped bring to the stage. That, and the trivial matter of the aftershow party.

It is a role there’s a lot of confusion about. Sometimes a producer is on board from the application process, or they can join once the show is underway. Generally though, it involves getting a team together, organising rehearsals or arranging auditions, prop acquisition, admin, alliterative listing – anything the director doesn’t want to do. You can view it as daunting or invigorating; on one project I was informed we didn’t have a technician a day before the first performance. Roaming the ADC bar, getting increasingly drunk and asking strangers if they could use my lights was an experience, nonetheless.

Amidst the quests for odd props (locating plastic male breasts, a latrine, and a carrot that looked like Hugh Gaitskell have been the three biggest challenges) are occasional moments for smugness. When a sleep-deprived colleague tells you they’ve spent three hours scouring the internet for a “snowstorm ornament”, bitterly complaining that it must be the only item that doesn’t even exist on the internet, being able to direct them to snowglobes.com is the sweetest of victories.

I recently hung up my producing boots (they were getting a little worn) but it’s something I can whole heartedly recommend – whether as a stepping stone or as a quarry in its own right.