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. Anything else is asking for trouble. She once reached over and bit the gamekeeper as he walked past, taking a chunk out of his head. He has never let me forget it and I’m pretty sure my packs of venison are a bit on the small side as a result.
I’ve tried everything to make Tara rideable, including having her fitted with £160 remedial shoes to aid her posture. She’s been X-rayed, blood-tested and physioed. She’s had more massages than I have. She’s been dosed with liver tonic, hormone treatment, calmers and supplements. She’s even had reiki.
But I don’t think she’s in any discomfort at all. She just doesn’t want to be ridden. She wants to be left alone in a stable to eat hay. But elderly horses have no business standing still in stables, running up hundreds of pounds a month in livery fees and stiffening their joints when they ought to be saving their owner’s money and kicking their heels up in a field.
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