Horseys

by mutteringhousewife

One the many things I don’t get about girls is the horse thing. The Muffet has loved them from birth. When she was five her cat got run over and before the body was even cold she said “well, I don’t have a pet now, how about a pony?”. We compromised with a dog, and Harry is now often my favourite member of the family. She still manages to get close to horses whenever she can, like today.

There’s what looks like a multimillion dollar slab of land across the road from Centennial Park which houses quite a lot of horse stables. You can’t really see it from the road, but once you’re inside it’s all chaff bags and sawdust and arenas and a whole lot of rough looking women wearing jodhpurs. Also, a whole lot of what look to me to be fairly depressed looking horses, I can’t imagine that living in a box for most of your life punctuated by being kicked by overexcited little girls could be much of a life. Still, presumably better than being made into glue.

It is one of these establishments that the Muffet frequents. They’re having a gymkhana in a couple of weeks, so she must brush up on her jumps. A gymkhana consists of a group of determined young ladies sitting on horses and making them do a whole lot of things they would rather not. Whomever is the bossiest wins. The Muffet was practicing being bossy today on a horse called Harley, and today he was the winner and she fell on her bottom. Hooray for Harley, I say, but she got back on the horse and was much lauded by her instructors for it.

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It is better than watching TV, and it does get one out in the fresh air, and it can be good exercise, especially if you’re falling off a lot. Just don’t expect an intelligent response from me if you start going on about rein notches and bending and chain jumps. I’m just the chauffeur. And I don’t get horseys.

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