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.)
I am drawn to them and once inside I can’t buy just one thing. There isn’t a 12-step programme invented that could restore me to sanity when I’m in a gloomily lit barn full of saddles and headcollars. I grab items from the shelves like a woman possessed, talking out loud as I wonder at the beauty of it all: ‘A coral red winter turnout rug! A new herbal supplement to restore my horse’s shine and vitality! A pair of black-leather riding boots that are slightly different from the pair I’ve got!’ Before long I have piled up a heap of goods on the floor by the till and the cashier is merrily adding them up to reach a figure that will easily cover the shop’s entire overheads for that month.
I have surpassed myself this time, though. I have visited not one, not two but three different tack shops and on each outing failed to buy the item I set out to purchase. This particular bender started when a friend asked me if I wouldn’t mind picking her up a £1.50 metal curry comb. So far, however, in my intrepid failure to purchase said item, I have racked up costs now running into four figures. I cannot quite comprehend how.
The day after I was asked the favour, I set off conscientiously for Roker’s country store near Guildford. I needed a few things myself, by which I mean a sack of rabbit feed and a bottle of liver tonic for my mare Tara. I strode into the barn store confidently but was immediately blindsided by a pair of high-tech tendon boots — perfect for Tara to wear to cross country, I told myself, grabbing them greedily from the shelf. Then I saw a deliciously softly padded navy-blue jacket. As I took it to the changing room I managed to entangle myself with two other riding coats, both of which I decided I could not possibly be expected to live without.
As I looked for the liver tonic, I fell over a stack of beautiful polar fleece stable rugs, then stumbled into a rail bearing a stripy long-sleeved polo shirt, then rebounded off that into a rack displaying the best ever black-leather riding gloves. I wouldn’t have slept that night if I hadn’t bought all of these treasures. At the till I was compelled to purchase three bags of horse treats — they put them there in much the same way as they put sweets by the cashdesk at Tesco, only you don’t have a child next to you nagging, you have a horse speaking to you in your head: ‘Please, mum! Can I have the apple-flavoured ones and the carrot. And the mint, I love mint!’ Oh, go on then.
When I got home, of course, I realised I had not got the curry comb. So the next time I was in the country I stopped off at the legendary Buttons saddlery. I only got one step inside the door when a navy-blue waterproof blouson with fancy white badges practically grabbed me by the throat, while a pair of brown-leather yard boots forced themselves on to my feet and a black hunting jacket with velvet collar took advantage of my weakened state and wrapped itself around my shoulders. All need not have been lost at even that point, however. Because at the cross country event a few days later there was a tack stand next to the hotdogs. This is it! I rejoiced. I’m going to that stand and I’m buying one metal curry comb for £1.50. But when I got home that night I was clutching a bag containing a pink and brown headcollar and a pair of easy-fastening overreach boots. I’m just going to come clean and tell my friend I’ve got a problem.
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