After a lot of false starts, I am now the proud occupant of a small weekend rental in the country. It is very exciting. No more commuting from Balham to Cobham to ride the horses. I wake up on Saturdays in a converted barn down a farm track and drive two minutes to the stable yard to see Tara, Grace and Darcy.
The three mares have now moved from their expensive livery yard to what we horse-owners rather disingenuously call a DIY yard. I say disingenuous because it’s not really DIY. A nice lady called Sue looks after them on weekdays and I ‘do them myself’ at weekends. Somehow, it saves a lot of money.
I had to move from the livery yard in the end because, despite the high prices, it was turning into a right dump. Once a smart eventing yard with rows of gleaming horses looking over the doors of polished stalls, it had started to look like the stables round the back of Albert Steptoe’s rag and bone yard. This, I am afraid to say, was because of the pikey quotient. In a recession, the number of pikeys scamming livery in any given stable yard sometimes goes beyond the optimum level whereby the mess is containable.
Yes, that’s right, I said pikey. In Surrey, the word pikey has nothing to do with gypsies or travellers and is commonly used to describe anyone of an unhygienic bent who refuses to sweep up after themselves, claims lavish state benefits, has a morbid BMI rating, at least two black teeth and more than seven tattoos.
The damage wrought by this sort of person in a public place can only be contained if the ratio of professional-to-pikey is no lower than 10–1.
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