Not for the first time at the Stephen Joseph Theatre, a classic Ayckbourn moment occurs.

I'm due to interview the Scarborough-based playwright, but waiting in the foyer of the theatre before we commence, I'm told there is a certain protocol which must be followed.

Sir Alan is also in the foyer, but there won't be any polite chit chat before the official interview begins. Instead, he will take the lift to his office alone. I will follow behind. And quite right.

This strict adherence to protocol and British manners typifies Ayckbourn to a tee: the small talk between myself and my companion while we wait in the foyer; Ayckbourn, who suffered a stroke last year, slowly taking his journey in the lift on his own. It could be a scene lifted straight out from one of his plays.

The examination of British values and society, manners, the class system and all its inherent values are the bedrock on which Ayckbourn has built his awesome reputation.

The Bard of Middle England is one of the titles British theatre has bestowed on Sir Alan Ayckbourn – not always intended as a complement. His examination of the human condition is confined, the establishment says, to the middle concerns of the middle-class, and this is why he has never received much of the critical acclaim afforded to other knights of British Theatre.

Yet, in the history of British theatre he is singular in that he has been the most appreciated during his own lifetime. Although his personal website admits it is actually an impossible statistic to verify, he is commonly regarded as the most performed British playwright, second only to the Bard of the Midlands.

It was in February 2006, while Ayckbourn was at an appointment with his osteopath, that he suffered a stroke.

Hospitalised, he was away from his beloved theatre in his adopted home town, for five months.

While recuperating, he had hundreds of cards from well-wishers. The Yorkshire public, as one, were horrified at the thought of Yorkshire theatre without him.

We shall, alas, have to come to terms with the thought.

In June last year, he announced that he would be stepping down in 2008, from his role running the SJT.

It is a long goodbye, but it feels necessary for both Ayckbourn and the public who love his plays.

Logic again would suggest the most sensible option would be for Ayckbourn to simply have not returned to work following his stroke. For that, we would have missed, but forgiven, him.

But Ayckbourn is not the sort to take life that easy. He has said previously that retirement holds no desire. The author of 70 plays would only twiddle his thumbs and wonder what to do with his spare time.

"It has been a gradual comeback, but it has been nice to ease back into things," says Ayckbourn.

We met earlier last year when he had completed directing his play, Relatively Speaking, and was preparing for his next project.

He admits that he was more concerned about directing than writing after the stroke, but found the more physically-demanding directing came easier.

"In hospital, I thought as long as one arm worked, I could write. I'd probably need a leg and an arm
to direct."

It turned out that writing was the more terrifying of the two.

"For a long time I felt like someone standing on the edge of a swimming pool, daring to jump in," says Ayckbourn.

"I wasn't sure if the part of the brain that writes the stories would work."

Ayckbourn retells the story of the stroke. It is clear the anecdote-relating section of the brain is fully operational.

"A few years ago, when the hospital first opened its stroke and cardiac unit, I was invited to officially open the wards," says Ayckbourn.

"I walked around like I was the Duke of Edinburgh, shaking hands with everyone and saying, 'Hello, how are you.'

"When I was lying in the stroke unit, I remember thinking, 'God was watching that day'."

While others sometimes bristle at Ayckbourn's assumed arrogance, on previous meetings, I have always found him to be self-deprecating and almost nervous – he rarely holds a gaze, choosing to look at the air above the interviewer rather than making contact with the eyes. There was, admittedly, an air of confidence, but frankly, after 70 very well-received plays, one should be allowed
a degree of self-satisfaction.