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The director has fought and won his battle. The design budget will bend to his will. Thirty wooden horses are commissioned.

The actors know this. They know the horses are accounted for. They will not have to act horses on stage. All, the same, when the director tells the whole cast to go away and discover their inner horse, they do so.

Each one tries to find a little paddock all their own in the rehearsal room. Self-consciously, glancing at neighbouring centaurs, they neigh and they prance and they whinny.

After fifteen minutes the director reins his herd in. He turns to one of the older actors and asks him to show the company his horse.

The actor thinks for a moment, then says he’d rather not.

The director says he really thinks the company would like to see his horse.

The older actor doesn’t believe in his inner horse. He declines to offer it for a second time.

The director does not want to crack the whip but he will if he has to.

The older actor sighs. He knows he ought not to be doing this, but he’s seen the younger actors’ horses, they were vital and alive and equine, and he knows his doesn’t compare. He wasn’t trained in how to be a horse. His horse is more like a mule.

For the final time, the director repeats the instruction.

The actor is broken. His horse sidles across the rehearsal room. It feels like he’s being taking to the knacker’s yard.

When he’s done, the company clap, and the director turns to a more suitable horse which prances leggily, and then horse after horse does its show-pony tricks. The director is satisfied.

As they leave the rehearsal for lunch, the older actor, feeling sheepish and foolish all at the same time, wonders how much it costs to make a wooden horse.