Shortly after rekindling my relationship with the builder boyfriend, I had another hair-brained scheme. I brought the mad chestnut mare in from her retirement field thinking that while I’m U-turning on crucial decisions with Cameronesque ease, I might as well review my policy on horses, as well as men.
The mad chestnut mare is 25 and murderously bad-tempered. Age has done nothing to mellow her. The staff at the stables call her ‘the old bag’. She is like an elderly relative in a nursing home who derives perverse pleasure from giving the people who look after her hell. Whenever I turn up, I am greeted with comments such as: ‘The old bag was kicking the door for her breakfast at six this morning.’
‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry. I’ll have a word with her.’
But of course I don’t dare. On approaching her stable I simply call out ‘Room service!’ and chuck a load of hay over the door.
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