Bite my carrot!

There were two horses that lived in a field around the corner from my grandparents in Tackley, who I would be encouraged to feed peppermints to every time we walked the village. When you're a wee boy, horses seem huge, and to this day I still can taste the fear that welled up each time I was gently pushed forward with the instructions "keep your hand flat so he doesn't bite your fingers off".

For me, until recently, horses have always been immense beasts that bite off children's fingers and shit in the road*.

So it's always a great pleasure to take my own children up to the horse rescue centre at Speen and inflict the same long-term night terrors, resulting from enforced contact with horses, on them.

Unfortunately you can't go throught the trauma of feeding them anymore -- they were getting fat on mountains of carrots, apples and Polos -- but you can still stroke them and get your allergies flared up. I left the place with one bloodshot eye, a torrent of snot oozing down my chin, and red-raw itchy hands.

Anyway, things didn't go to plan. Although India showed some trepidation, Elliot turned the tables. He ran around screaming, hands and fingers outstretched at horses teeth, leaping up at stable doors, scrambling to climb into stables, trying to poke the beasts in the eye, and generally having a wild time. If he could have rode one, he'd have given it a go.

One blast that amused India and made Vic and my eyebrows arch, was whilst petting one of the horses, hearing a good 30 second long fart come from its arse. He held it at a single note. It was impressive stuff. Two boxes further down and that horse did the same.

And the horse's name that lived between these two epic hair blowers?

'Reveille'.

You have to assume that he can play two or three different notes.


* I'd now actually like them to shit in my composter.