If I love any horse, it is a seahorse.

And then you could wash up yourself, or do whatever you want, maybe even a bit of homework or study. But shir, what is it they have ye all doing? Learning lines, learning off reams and reams of stupid lines. Forget them. Today, today indeed today you can ride the stallion. The stallion. And forget learning lines for anyone. Make up your own. Gods make their own …

Indeed.

I can’t move my legs. I am overheating. I dive under the waves again and I fan my hands in front of my face. The young yearling with the two big knees gently nuzzles me. We are so sorry to each other. Well, horse, we could have managed this better.

You’re not sick at all, loveen, I’ve told you this a million fucken times. You need to toughen up.

‘Did you hear me, love? Go with it, go into it, go into it, and stop fighting.’

‘Can someone ask her to try and relax? Anyone?’

‘Is that her husband?’

‘Are you her husband? What’s your name, love? Love? Name?’

‘Shit, sir, quick, quick as you like …’

‘Jesus Christ, GET HIM OUT!’

‘OK, OK, sir, sir, you really must, this way, please.’

‘Get him to leave, somebody take him out – ’

‘He wants to stay, he’s insisting –’

‘And could someone take off the blowfish slippers? I can’t work on her looking at them – Christ.’

‘Blobfish, they’re blobfish,’ Alex says. He stays.

I dive under the water again, but I’ve gone out of my depth and there’s a net.

‘OK. Everyone, as you were. Again. Count.’

‘What’s your name, love?’

I grab a yellow paisley necktie tight with my fist and wrap it round my wrist.

Never wrap the lead rope around your fucken arm like this. I’ve. Told. You. A. Thousand. Times. Now that’ll show you. Don’t mind rubbing your face. It’s only a slap. If you do this with a big horse, and he’s stronger, remember he’s always stronger, he’ll pull your arm clean out of the ball and socket at the shoulder and clean off you, like a Christmas cracker snap, and I try to tell you, but I can’t. Do. You. Ever. Listen. CHRIST.

I try to scream, but the doctor’s holding my face in his hands and they are soaked wet.

He’s Alex.

Alex, his name is Alex. My Husband. And he’s so far away right now that he could be standing on top of Mount Blanc. That time. We ate apricots. Drank wine. Chewed tobacco.

They shove something down my throat. I gag. I gag up my tongue. I gag up my tits, my tummy, my vagina. My legs pulled upwards and inside of me and I gag them up too. I leave it there, the gagging. There is nothing left inside of me. The fear on Alex’s face is like a dirty winter’s hangover from March. But we’re in April now. And I love him. Guilt. And this fucking elbow on my sternum.