I'm too old for this shit

I wake up with cramps, y'know ladies *those* cramps, seriously, at my age? I'll be candid I've made arrangements so that any further conceptions are out of the question, after bringing two children through the toddler years I voted Tie My Tubes Doc, and frankly hasn't my body got anything better to do than pubescent-grade cramps? Like going to work on the 20lb of flab that it has clearly deposited in error about my person?
Despite my refusal to buy into the process, it continues unabated, bending me double and blurring my vision. I throw hay or corn at the animals where appropriate and head into town in search of chemical help for my age-inappropriate Woman's Problems..... Luckily I live in a town of elderly hypochondriacs and while we may not have a decent restaurant we have 2 large chemists, 3 doors apart.
The first has 3 different medications for cramps behind a glass screen with "under supervision" on them. I lean heavily on the counter."I really really need something for weapons-grade cramps." I gasp." We have these 3 tablets here" replies the woman at the counter.
"Yes I can see that, which is strongest?"
"Well, this one... But I have to ask are you over 50?"

(are you fucking kidding me?) "No, I just look it at the moment because I'm in tremendous pain. Could I have some tablets please?"

(carefree laugh) "oh no I can't do that, these are all under pharmacist supervision and she has taken her cat to the vet"
"So everything you have for ladycramps you can't sell me till she gets back?"
"Sorry"
"How long will she be?"
"Not sure, would you like to take a seat and wait."(pan out to a row of senior citizens sitting by the counter with haunted expressions, clutching prescription 
sheets
"How old were they when they got here?"
"Sorry madam?"
"Never mind I'll go to Other Chemist"

-----shuffles to Other Chemist, scaring small children------

"Please can I have something for cramps I'm dying here"

"sorry madam our pharmacist is on her lunch break."

"Are you fucking joking? Is she on a date with the pharmacist from First Pharmacist?"
"I'm not sure what you mean madam, have you tried The Pharmacist at the Edge of Town?"

(through gritted teeth) "They're probably having a threeway. Give me some Neurofen before I slam your head in that cash drawer"

There was nothing for it but to get back in the car and drive to the Chemist at the Edge of Town. This meant driving through Haslemere in the middle of the day and I only had to count to 3 before the inevitable Honda Jazz pulled out of a side road without looking and proceeded down the high st at a Tectonic pace in front of me. I swear these elderly motorists lie in wait for me, their giant hairy ears attuned to the sound of my car, flat caps and yattering permed wives on permanent standby like the Thunderbirds. Banging my head against the steering wheel (it made a change from the pain down below) I contemplated that in younger, more dissolute times when cramps like these were a regular monthly torture, I would roll up a pleasant herbal cure and page Dr Mary-J.

Eventually I ran out of patience with the bickering codgers in the car in front, I mean what is wrong with these people, why do they always have to lead a parade? Self-esteem issues? Put my boot down and unleashed 250 of the finest German horses in an overtaking manoeuvre that would have made Jeremy Clarkson orgasm. I may have waved regally as I sailed past. I chucked the car up onto the kerb outside The Chemist on the Edge and staggered in, like a wounded gunslinger going for their last shot of red eye.
Well obviously there was a queue at the counter, but the pharmacist was in-hurrah!
After listening to all the other customers describe their ailments in appalling detail, oblivious to the groaning zombie standing behind them I grabbed the cashier by the arm. "Cramps" I whispered, "Really bad cramps, need drugs now" she peeled my fingers off and went to talk to the pharmacist (I was keeping an eye on her in case she gave me the slip out of the window) "you need zuzmzncvchfln" said the pharmacist "fantastic stuff, works a treat"
"I'll take a large box."
"Sorry we don't stock it any more, shame it worked a treat for you -didn't it Susan?"
"Oh yes" beamed the cashier, "brilliant, I've got loads stockpiled at home"
I have never wanted laser eye beams as much as I wanted them at that precise moment.
"Have you tried Boots in town?" she continued.
"FEMINAX! I roared," just give me some sodding FEMINAX! You are all fucking mental in this town, I just want to go home now and get pissed!"
"I'm sorry madam, it's not recommended you drink with these"
"I beg to differ."

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Setting the record straight

There has been a lot of comment and criticism of my chosen sport lately, and despite assurances from the governing bodies, media attention and welfare pressure groups seem hellbent on dragging us into the mud. As most of this comes frankly from ignorance and the usual British drive to belittle the successful, I feel the facts should be laid bare and open for you all to make up your own minds and let the chattering classes continue to damn what they don't understand.
Child Racking is a noble and beautiful sport, it's origins come from the Classical Spanish Inquisition but there is writing from the Greek and Roman times to suggest that the pursuit of the idealised etiolated form and perfect arching of the neck and spine is far older than that.
Currently I am competing in Child Racking at the highest level, with my two homebred youngsters, one of whom won the Grand Pricks for his beautiful flowing lines of agony as we exceeded our personal best and stretched him by more than 5 inches! Obviously competing at this level requires dedication training and considerable sacrifice on my part but I am not scared of hard work and will always be found putting the extra hours in at our training dungeon, and as an ambassador for the sport I am happy to help the up and coming Racking stars of the future.
My Racking Children always perform well and willingly, I can't imagine why those loony hippies who criticise imagine they don't enjoy it, their perfect teeth as they grimace and the rivulets of crystal clear sweat that run down their limbs show that these are not slaves as some would have, but happy athletes, performing at the peak of physical perfection. They have the best of everything when not competing, each has their own room with a bed in it and a window out onto the world. They can't go outside of course, they are far too valuable to run and play with other children, and they need all their reserves of energy to shine as I tighten the wheel. But they are immaculately kept, bathed daily, not a hair out of place and are dressed in the finest clothes.
I hope that this little missive has put the record straight to some extent, I feel that as a top level sportswoman I should not be discriminated against, I did not choose to be so talented in this discipline, and people with some kind of agenda - a load of Happy Slackers, if you ask me the lot of them- should keep their noses out of what they don't understand. Maybe they are just jealous of my success, I that winning the gold medal would have my nation proud of me but alas, this does not seem to be the case.

Wizard

This isn't easy to write..............can I just stress that I have written this from a personal viewpoint, if anyone knows the facts better than I then please correct me, and if I inadvertently offend anybody I apologise.

I dont remember exactly when I first met this horse but I remember how it felt. It was like falling in love, or flying, or staring at the sky on a balmy tropical night. He was a horse that you just had to stare at and admire, not just for his glossy coat and fine head but because of his charisma. If he were a person he would have been as photogenic as David  Beckham, as pretty-boy handsome as Jon Bon Jovi, as sexy as Valentino.
When I first rode him at the riding school I was warned not to use my legs at all, and I never did in our whole time together because this was a horse you could ride with your breath, with your intention, by the slightest shift in your seat. I saw him jump like a stag with Kelly, who worked with him for years, and who I always knew in my heart was his Special Person. I never minded being second best later, it didnt matter.
I saw him career around the arena with a terrified girl on board, head high, full pelt, looking for an exit, but I also saw him take small children for Pony Rides, treading carefully and calmly with flicked ears and soft eyes.
I offered to buy him but was refused, when he was later sold to someone else I cried myself dry but I waited and hoped........... and then a year later he was mine.
He was kicked out of the Equestrian College he had gone to with his new owner, had acquired the labels 'dangerous' 'unstoppable' 'undisciplined' along the way, but creeping out of the horsebox that day came a shadow of Wizard, unwilling to be caught (it took me a year to be able to walk up to him with a headcollar and put it on him in the field) frightened and suspicious. I put him out in a 35 acre field with 20 other horses and let him be just a horse, perhaps for the first time in his life.
Every day we got a little closer, as the trust grew we learned about each other, the day I took the bit out of his mouth and rode him in a Hackamore his head lowered by a good 6 inches, and every fibre of his body said "Thank You". He could still jump over the Moon, as fast and accurate as an arrow but I was learning fast- he hated Shows, just because he was good at Showjumping didnt mean he enjoyed it, what was important to me, Rosettes or what I was building with this amazing horse? So we rode away from the ring forever, we never looked back.
I somehow convinced my family to move to a farm in the last wild corner of Surrey in 2006 and brought him home with his best friend, my Irish Cob Archer. Their deep and devoted friendship was beautiful to see, they would graze nose-to-nose, swish flies off of each other on sunny days, munch hay on my yard together on cold afternoons. Wizard was the scary henchman to Archer's implacable Alpha, he kept the geldings in line with a wave of a back hoof, if it let fly it was always with the same pin-point accuracy of his jumping skills.
He transformed himself from the unpredictable 'dangerous' firecracker to the horse you would ride with a newcomer to the yard, or with someone who was nervous of hacking, or, memorably for me, with no saddle or bridle, just breath and trust and impeccable paces in the school, proud of himself, proud that he was trusted.
Every step was a poem, ridden or loose he moved with the effortless grace of running water, out on a gallop he accelerated away like a curling wave, leaving far bigger horses behind in his dust. We healed each other, Wizard and I, I put my trust in his keeping and he in return made me feel fabulous and worthy of such fire and beauty in my life. One incident stands out- out hacking with friends someones youngster lost his head and went tearing past us plunging and bucking, eventually throwing his rider. Wizards normal reaction to this was to tense up, set his neck against me and bolt (it had happened quite a few times) but we had come a long way, been together a long time and I went with my gut. I threw the reins away, down onto his neck, and said "Make the right choice Wizard"
He stopped, turned his head around and looked at me, dropped his head and let out a long, long breath. And we walked home at the front of the ride, leading the way, he strutting like a stallion on the first day of Spring, me with tears pouring down my face.
The cancer that ultimately took him from me first robbed him of his voice (you cant whinny through a tracheotomy) then his legendary topline, then came the day when everything he ate came pouring out of his nose and the horse that wouldn't be caught became the horse that wouldnt leave the yard. His way of telling me he had had enough. I was there at the end, as was his best friend Archer, how many of us will be able to boast the same?
My Soul Horse, my childhood dream come true, my healer and guide I hope there is a wild windy mountain somewhere where you flicker like a flame.

Beware the Horse With the Sense of Humour

Life's been a bit tough lately- while I am quite well aware I have many many blessings to count, we are in the middle of a partial demolition and rebuild of the farmhouse at Overwhelming Acres, my elder son and comedy partner has flown the coop for University and my gorgeous Welsh pony is in the final stages of terminal cancer, and has been fitted with a Tracheotomy which needs daily removal and cleaning (not for the faint hearted). So a nice long ride out into some glorious sunshine sounded just the ticket when suggested by a good friend, we performed the necessary nursing duties to the Welsh Wonder, and left him scoffing an enormous bucket of feed, tacked up my other two-Comedy Cob and The Blonde, collected Bulldog and headed out.

So we rode over to Hindhead (a new tunnel where the A3 used to bisect the common has transformed this area from a traffic blackspot to a breathtaking place of beauty and silence) which on reflection wasnt the best of ideas on a sunny weekend. The Greensand Way was mobbed, it was like riding through the Canterbury Pilgrims. With kids. And bikes. And mental barky dogs. And some of the most ridiculous hats I've ever seen. Comedy Cob rolled his eyes suspiciously at everyone but powered manfully through the crowd, The Blonde probably hadnt noticed them as she was planning her lunch when she got back to the yard, Bulldog amused himself by smiling at the gundogs and terriers and watching their owners freak out.

Finally we arrived at the Punchbowl Cafe, which is like a Motorway Service Station from the 70's marooned in a sea of green, weaved through the packed car park and I left Riding Pal in charge of both ponies and the dog to go and buy us both a well-earned cuppa. As this is Surrey this inevitably took twice as long as strictly necessary and involved my having practically to grab a member of staff by the throat in order to get served. By the time I came out the ponies had drawn a small crowd- this happens every time I go to Hindhead, but I am always rather surprised that people who live in the country find horses a novelty, my equines are the main reason why I moved here, if I didnt have too many horses and dogs I'd still be swigging Lattes on the Northcote Rd thank you very much. So we had small kids being reluctantly held up by their parents to pat soft noses and young girls running their fingers through The Blonde's amazing two-tone mane. Those in the know about horses also came and talked to us out of curiosity as The Blonde is a Norweigian Fjord Horse and quite a distinctive rarity, plus I am very much into the Alternative Horse scene,  both ponies are ridden in bitless bridles, funky treeless saddles and are ridden unshod. By the time we had finished our teas we were on first name terms with most of the Cafe's customers.
Time to go- I collected Bulldog from his crowd of adoring children who were feeding him flapjack and tickling his belly and led The Blonde over to a raised bank on the side of the carpark ( I like to mount from a height as it's kinder to the horse's back and I'm no spring chicken any more) my horses know the drill, I lead them to a raised bank or log, they stand downhill and I get on from the higher ground. I mounted The Blonde and called over to Riding Pal, indicating the handy earthy bank that I had stood on, perfect for her to use to get on Comedy Cob. Some of the kids were waving goodbye to us and hey I love playing celeb as much as the next person, I pull off a perfect Parade Wave as The Blonde and I cruise out of the carpark (I was taught htis while riding in Colorado, you extend your arm dead straight at 45degrees, flex the wrist so the fingers point at the sky and make like you are cleaning a small window).

 All eyes turned to Riding Pal as she led Comedy Cob over to the mounting spot, but she unaccountably forgot his dispostion and sense of humour and made the mistake of taking her eyes off the Loki of the horse world for a moment. Thus as she turned to mount up she realised there was no horse standing obediently below the bank. Because he had followed her silently up onto the higher ground and was now standing perched looking at her, nose to nose, with a "What did we come up here for then?" expression. And red-faced she had to lead him back down and mount up in a different spot. Our gracious exit ended with her blushing and giggling, riding a chuckling Cob through a baffled crowd that was melting away. I have never laughed so hard while sitting on a horse (I dont think anyone has), so I really wasn't helping as I BWAH HA HA'd my way back out of the Carpark. Its been a rough couple of weeks, horsewise, but bless Comedy Cob for making me truly LOL. I really needed it.