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And then, out of the blue, it suddenly struck me that I really wasn’t fine. All at once, I had the most tremendous, overwhelming sense of being heartily sick of being pulled about in the wrong direction.
The yard owner, who had come out of her house to see if she could offer assistance, said later that she had never seen such a transformation in a person as she saw in me in that moment.
While Old Melissa would have blithely let the horse catapult her around the yard until it reached its preferred place of stopping, then put her in her stable with a big pile of hay and a pat on the neck in the hope that, if she was just nice enough, everything would be better next time, New Melissa did something very different. Apparently, and I have only a very hazy memory of it myself, she shouted, ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m sick of you messing me about. I want to go forward, everyone else seems to manage to go forward, why am I the only one who has to go backwards? Well, I’m telling you now, things are going to change around here. No more Mrs Nice Guy, do you hear? No one is going to make me go in the wrong direction any more. I’m bloody well going forwards if it’s the last thing I do.’ Bizarrely, New Melissa then gave her mount a tremendous kick, yanked the reins and the pair of them shot out of the yard. Forwards. Many hours later they returned, the malevolent horse perfectly ‘on the bit’, as they say in horsey circles, and plodding placidly in whichever direction the owner pointed her.
What happened on that ride is a bit of a blur but I do recall exerting myself so much that I almost threw up over the side.
There were a few sticky moments. We nearly came undone as we went past the Black Swan because some bright spark had had the idea of installing two plastic life-size cows in the pub garden. I mean, really, the mentality of some people. The horse leapt all over the road in a severe state of artistic outrage and on this matter I had to agree with her. She wasn’t too keen on the little posse of designer brown-and-white shaggy rams posing ludicrously in the lottery winner’s front garden either, although at least they were real. Why do new millionaires always repair to faux turreted mansions in Surrey and put tiny herds of bespoke sheep on the lawn? It puzzles me. You would think they would be happier in Bermuda drinking cocktails.
When we got back to the yard the horse had a look on its face that had never been seen before. ‘She’s in shock,’ was the yard owner’s verdict. ‘You actually stuck up for yourself. You should do it more often.’
I dismounted with a huge smile on my face but, as my feet touched the ground, I realised I had been in the saddle kicking like mad for three hours and my legs were numb. So instead of landing elegantly like the conqueror returning, my legs buckled like a rag doll and I fell into a little heap on the floor. I don’t care. I’m going forwards. I can work on the whole dignity thing another day.
Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
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