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.)

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.