As the sun rose over the Pacific, the guests at Sugar Beach Ranch slowly surfaced from their lodgings with sore heads but full social cups, and despite the collapse of the DJ’s system the ball on the beach was a success. 

Jeremy and Liv however had more to contend with. Liv had to make a sheepish yet dignified route from Jeremy's room to her own which meant traversing the central courtyard that had started developing a decent number of leering breakfast-goers. Be-gowned with pumps and clutch in hand she made the dash, realising half way she had missed the opportunity to use the provided dressing robe as a furphy. ‘Bugger’ she uttered.

Then there was the issue of the talking horse. Had someone switched the mushrooms in the pithiviers? Were the martinis meddled with? Was the compote compromised?

Back in her room, refreshed and smug with her evening’s exploits, Liv pulled her jeans on ready for a group ride in the hinterland. Phone in one hand, she was flicking Insta for last night’s juice and any evidence of her and Jeremy's cavorting. Amongst a thick volley of DM’s from girlfriends an unfamiliar handle stood out - you have been tagged in a post by ‘@MrNedSugarBeach’. Liv skipped over the prising gossip seekers and tapped on it. Instagram produced a blurry selfie of @JeremyDowney89, @LivLidscombe97 and @MrNedSugarBeach who was very evidently, a horse….

A few things stood out. Firstly that Blake had lied about his age, ‘1989, WTF!’ , and secondly that her newest follower, Mr Ned, was very much sentient, lingual, occasionally bipedal, completely capable of operating a Samsung Galaxy without opposable thumbs and ostensibly into cinema. It all started to come rushing back - the disagreement over Woody Allen’s lack of talent, the consensus on Kristen Stewart’s lack of talent and Mr Ned’s confirmation that Woody Harrelson is indeed hung like, well, a horse (a first hand account from Mr Ned’s first cinematic role where Harrelson barebacked Mr Ned in a low budget fantasy that never saw the big screen).

Meanwhile Jeremy had got it together slightly and made his way to the polo field. He had drunk a dozen-ish beers and an unclear amount of martini. He wasn’t in good shape, a bit damp on the brow, dry mouthed, a little dissociative, and with a shady sort of nausea. His coital performance loomed over him, causing at least 75% of his now crushing anxiety. The talking horse caused the other 25% but he hadn’t quite realised that yet. 

Jeremy's allocated pony was looking at him strangely. He averted his eyes only to be trained onto the gaze of another. Any horse he met eyes with elicited a sort of knowing, critical and conscious connection. Flashes of recall started spearing into Jeremy's view. The night’s events unraveled before him like an overwhelming cascade, spiralling, spinning, crescendo’ing. Thump, Blake faints prone in the grass. 

A few minutes pass and Jeremy cracks open his eyes. Through the glare and blades of grass he makes out a familiar, long face. “Hey ya buddy! We lost ya there for a tic!” said Mr Ned.