Real life | 21 April 2012

Somehow or other, through some sort of oversight, I seem to have acquired a racehorse. It all happened very quickly, as these things tend to. I was with the boyfriend, visiting his mother’s yard, where she deals horses. The boyfriend was inspecting a coloured pony for driving. The boyfriend fancies himself on a pony and trap this summer, although I can’t quite see the attraction myself. He tells me it will be fun, the two of us clip-clopping around Cobham on a shiny carriage pulled by a smart little trotter.

So I went with him to inspect Jim Boy. I peered over the stable door at the black and white gypsy cob. He was munching his third hay net of the morning and stirring his bed up with his big unshod hooves. To say he was hairy was an understatement. His forelock covered his entire face, so he looked like a punk rocker.