Turns out you can’t eat grass. A horse does something clever to it in its mouth that humans can’t. Fine, so it was an absolutely ludicrous thing to do. But I blame the ex-builder boyfriend (who is not an ex-builder, he’s an ex-boyfriend, for those who have queried that). He and I were in Tara’s field, assessing whether the retired mare was in danger of laminitis, when the ex-BB said: ‘Trust me, this grass is sweet. Taste it.’
And for reasons I barely understand, I knelt down, plucked a handful of grass, put it in my mouth and chewed.
‘Ooh, it’s delicious!’ I exclaimed, for truly it was tastier than a gourmet salad. I then got carried away and instead of spitting, I swallowed.
Oh yes, very funny. I know. The BB laughed and laughed. And I started choking, and spluttering, ‘I’ve got some of it stuck! Help!’ The BB told me to go to the petrol station on my way home and buy a fizzy drink. He was off to have dinner with friends.
I drove to the garage, swigged various drinks, ate sandwiches and sucked cough sweets, then rang him back in a panic to say something sharp was still stuck in my throat, but he wasn’t answering. So I drove myself to the Royal Surrey Hospital in Guildford.
I had to leave Cydney in the car and put a £3.50 ticket on the windscreen that involved typing into the digital parking machine a number on the parking bay that was worn invisible. The parking warden told me off for not being able to do it. ‘I’m choking on a thorn!’ I extemporised, so he assigned me the fictitious bay number 500, as a special treat.
Inside, the receptionist didn’t begin to understand the concept of swallowing grass.
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