Horse day

Of course I have ambitions for my girls. I do not want them lying on the sofa munching crisps, drinking beer, and watching daytime TV like mama. No. I want them to do elegant things. Like horse riding. With an education like this, I am sure to get them in the right circles and marry them off to a distant relative of the British royal family.

I know I must sacrifice something for this type of ambition. So I slap a smile on my face and take Tiger down the stables once a week for her riding lesson.

Fortunately, today I do not have to do that. Because Dig is back, everything is falling neatly into a right and ordered place. It's his job to take her and I can spend the time complaining about it on the blog.

Because not having to spend nearly an hour of misery at the foul horse stink den called the stables, is one mighty big relief. I do not like these great lumbering snorty creatures called horses. OK, I am grown up and no longer believe they are going to kill me, but it doesn't mean I have to like them. Not one bit.

For a start, horses reverse without indicating. Worse, they do not even bother to look at the space they are reversing into. Now, horsey, if I did that type of manoeuvre I would be in big trouble getting out of every car parking space. But I note that when these great hairy creatures do the reversing thing and crash into every innocent person standing behind them looking the other way then there is a big hue and cry and everyone shouts CUTE HORSE! FOOL PERSON! Standing there behind LOVELY HORSE. Clearly, being a non-horse person in the vicinity of these hairy fat monsters means you deserve to be trampled to death.

And that's not my only complaint about the horse, the fact that it can kill me with its arse. They cannot see where they are going. They only look sideways. There is nothing to trust about an animal who does that.

Then there is the hair and the smell and the poo and the hooves. There is nothing cute about these things at all, and do not get me started on the combed ears and tails held up by pink ribbons.

Because that sort of thing is typical as well. They need more looking after than a baby. There are constant ministrations and reverences made not only to this hairy beast but to a variety of weird objects that are treasured more than gold necklaces. Stuff like tack and bit and bridle. All this mountain of stuff is hung up and polished and stroked and cooed over by size zero stable lasses sporting long blond hair in jaunty pony tails and striding about with legs that measure up to my shoulder height.

You see? Normally I must sacrifice my rights to free speech and not shout all this stuff out at the stables. But it's true. Horses get everything their own way, they have stuff to dress up in, and servants to look after the stuff. And for this what do they do all day but crash about making offensive noises?

Of course given our ambitions, it's not for me to make comparisons with the British royal family.