The astonishingly perfect gloves I bought in Harrod’s last November have got holes in them.

This bums me out, as these gloves are perfect: light, breathable, with a secure velcro closure and stylish to boot. My first pair were something along the lines of gardening gloves, I don’t where I thought I was — Siberia? I used to get all bundled up for some bizarre reason, I think I may have even considered a scarf, in the early days, I can’t imagine why. It’s warm work — and the heat the horse gives off as well, I mean, seriously.

Then it was summer and I got two pairs of really lightweight cotton gloves at Coleman’s, an in-person shopping experience that I can only enjoy infrequently [the car thing, again.] Two pairs for less than a tenner, and they, too, were fab, with little knobbly, suctiony bits all over the palm and fingers.

On Monday I decided to retire my posh London gloves until the arrival of the new pair that I ordered on online. Ah, internet! What would I do without ye? So I tossed last summer’s surviving pair into my kit bag and that was that.

Until I pulled them on. They were utterly trashed. They were the equestrian version of stew-pot bum gloves, gaping holes running down two fingers of each hand, flaps of knobbly, suctiony bits hanging of the right like flayed flesh, an enormous tear in the palm of the left.

It wasn’t like they didn’t work, except that by the end of the lesson my left middle finger was poking out of the top in an annoying fashion. I liked it though, I like going through jods and gloves and socks because it means I’m using them, really wearing them out. Ride ’em hard and put ’em away wet! [Did I just…? Ah, come on, how could I resist!]

The gloves didn’t make it home. They were in further tatters and beyond my frail powers of mending and deserved a suitable resting place in the arena of their triumphs. Well, sort of. The bin in the ladies loo is probably not that dignified a tomb, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.

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