So, talk about a buzz kill: I had Tango for my private lesson on Thursday, and we went great together, a combination of some fairly massive improvements on my part re: leg; of watching a lesson mate ride him really well on Tuesdays; and of the penny finally dropping as regards how to behave as we approach a fence. Oh, also: not wanting to get turfed off onto my head like the last time I rode him and he refused two fences in a row.

No refusals on Thursday, and got some ‘Very good!’s out of Ruth [wish I had a recording device, I’d make that my ringtone] and the sun was shining, it wasn’t as freezing cold as it had been at 7am when I left my apartment, and I… it wasn’t a walk, nor a strut… okay, maybe it was a strut, I strutted down the lane, thoroughly delighted with myself, to wait for the bus… and wait… and wait…

And because I am a crotchety old lady in training, I rang the bus depot [I have the numbers of the main two in my phone; not yet on speed dial, thank God] and there was to be no bus. Dammit! Now I had to lug, on shaky [but strutting!] legs, myself and that feckin’ rucksack all the way down and around to feckin’ Ballyogan and pray — pray — that I wouldn’t have to wait half an hour for the 44—

Which I saw swinging around the corner and away. Bollocks! But look! There’s a taxi! Up went the arm and happily, he was unengaged, and with relief tossed that feckin’ rucksack into the back seat and climbed in.

And as was usual, it was a driver who’s taken me up to the yard many a time. There are several dudes who know me by now, and this was one of them. One of them, in fact, who used to ride himself, and had a horse he was selling…

I asked all the right questions, and received answers that interest me. I have been kinda sorta looking since last year, like around summer time, which I haven’t been writing about here because I’m writing a book about it. I’ve written about writing the book here, and my mind is seriously like split in two about how to do that, and post at the same time. But I had to write about this event because, I ask you: I’m sitting in a taxi, and the taxi man has a horse, and he emails pictures of the horse, and she looks lovely

Oh, crap, oh, crap. I think that a good subhead for this post would be FEAR OF COMMITMENT. What if I like her and want her? What then? Then I have to go up there every day. Then I can’t just show up, maybe do a little tacking, a little untacking, a little grooming, and strut off down the lane, leaving someone else to figure out what to do if she goes lame or is ill or whatever. Every time I look at a horse on the internet, I imagine the whole life of the horse, of me and the horse, and the thing about the ‘everyday’ part is the part where I just start hyperventilating. It’s the same with the dudes I’m meeting on the online dating site I’ve joined, but that’s a story for another time, WINK.

I am going to go look at this mare. Just because I’m going to see her doesn’t mean I’m buying. Just because I am projecting as to how drastically my life will change doesn’t mean that I’m not going to eventually get my own horse. Does it?

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