Real life | 18 February 2012

Wandering along a smart west London street after lunch, I happened upon a little tack shop.

I have a strict policy of never passing by equestrian suppliers, as you know. I am quite hopelessly addicted to the smell of saddle leather. The sight of shiny new bridles hanging in a row makes me swoon the way some women get excited over a rack of La Perla underwear sets. Give me a velvet skullcap cover over a silk camisole any day of the week.

This was a particularly swish-looking tack shop and as soon as I was inside I was emitting ‘Aaaah!…Oooooh!’ noises. There were Beagle caps and polo hats, hunting coats, tweeds and long black shiny boots. ‘Oh! Oooooo!’

Maybe I was a bit high on leather fumes, but as the woman who ran the place appeared from the back of the shop I could have sworn I had seen her in an episode of The League of Gentleman.

As she skipped up to me and put her face right into my face I was very much expecting her to say, ‘We’re a local tack shop for local people.’

Instead she said, ‘We’re the only tack shop in London, you know.’

‘Really?’ I said, backing into a display of head collars. ‘I’m fairly sure there’s a tack department in Harrods. And what about that place near Sloane Square…’

‘Yes, well, apart from those ones,’ she said, forcefully advancing on me again as I walked backwards around the shop.

She pinned me against a wall of numnahs and stuck her face right up against my face again.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’