The thing that I love about rehearsals - well, one of the things in fairness - is the fertile ebullient brilliant imagination exercised.

In truth, we are in a dingy (though less dingy since we moved to number 18) slightly misshapen room that is cluttered with unnecessary furniture and blessed with an unnecessarily wiry carpet.

But in the play - in this play - we are in a tranquil forest glade flanked by centuries-old trees and a battered caravan.

We prank and step and stumble through our lines in this rural idyll in our workaday clothes with the badnesses that bothered our day jostling at the door to snatch our attention back.

And then we walk "off-stage". And there's a moment, always a moment, when you stop your character bustle or slope or stagger or stride because you're brought up short by the real room wall. You have your fraction of a second shake yourself down that's me done this time with your nose pressed close to the paint work. Then you turn back to the 'audience' and you're you again.

What a silly magical nonsense.