Real life | 2 October 2010

Tack shops. You can’t live with them, can’t live without them. There is no logical explanation for how compulsively these places draw you in. It is entirely probable they put something addictive in the air supply. Or would they even need to? The intoxicating smell of leather and leather soap, of soft brown suede, of waxed jackets, of hoof oil, of rubber and neoprene Hunters, ooh aah…

Sorry, I’m having a moment. I know it’s not just me who suffers from addiction to specialist shops. Morrissey once made a very persuasive argument that he was in the grip of an obsessive compulsion involving Ryman’s the stationers. Every time he saw one he was rendered powerless. He had to go in and bulk buy paper products. Something about the smell of ringbinders just did it for him. This is how it is for me and horse shops. (I’ll settle for shooting or fishing tackle stores if I have to.)