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I would make copious notes every time I rode and I still have the pile of notebooks, filled with mild triumphs and wild defeats.
As I got older and taller I graduated to a big, excitable bay called Cavalier who would rush his fences, ducking out at the last moment only to circle the field, flat-out, like a demented greyhound.
I felt guilty, as if I were going to meet a new lover, which in a way I was.
I parked in the yard, and the woman told me the horse was still in the field.
I had thought we would spend the weekend having sex, but we didn't - the only thing my husband ravished was the minibar. There were lots of teenage girls milling about, pushing wheelbarrows and sweeping, and I thought: 'Oh God, teenage girls still do this. I swivelled round to see my husband, who was slumped like a sack of potatoes, giving me the look that I knew meant he blamed me for his misery.
How incredibly comforting they aren't all binge-vomiting down their sparkly vest tops.' And then I walked up to the horse I had been assigned to ride, a little bay mare with a jaunty expression, sank my nose into her neck and suddenly that smell hit me. It felt like Saturday morning again when I was a child. Cruelly, I hadn't bothered to tell him about the rising trot, so he was going bump, bump, bump on his manhood.