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I have just been out riding on my horse. Well, perhaps "horse" is a bit of a misnomer, she is really a shaggy pony with thick hocks and a neck like John Prescott's.
She is a skewbald gypsy cob, which means she spent her formative years avoiding council tax, tethered to a roundabout just off the A1. While she munched on the municipal grass, she was no doubt dreaming of the day she could squash her big fat hairy arse into a wedding dress the size of St Paul's.
According to Ronnie, her rakish former owner, the four-year stint on a traffic island made her "bomb proof". Not so. She is happy enough playing chicken with cars and lorries, but God help us if a paper bag flutters by. To you or me, a Greggs bag might unlock a Proustian memory of a warm cheese and onion pasty, but to her it is a Taliban insurgent...