The fond, the funny and the unforgettable pony club memoirs
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Did you grow up as a Pony Club member? Was every waking hour as a child filled with thoughts of ponies and rosettes? If so, you may then well find some of the below points resonate well.
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The fond, the funny and the unforgettable pony club memoirs
- Damping your pony’s mane down with tears of frustration after repeatedly producing plaits, that Rory McIlroy would be forgiven for mistakenly taking a swing at.
- A mother’s joy at discovering you’re hard at work tackling her beloved leather saddle with a scouring pad.
- The utter contempt held against anyone who dared to own a pony, that wasn’t at least semi mentally unhinged often resentfully branded a ‘push button pony’.
- The disownment from ones family after forgetting the course for the fifth time this week, whilst desperately searching the photographer’s face for clues.
- The blood loss from an anxious mother’s face the day she lets her favourite child off the lead rein and is met, in return, by a rider-less Welsh mountain and a single boot.
- Mums forming strong and instantaneous bonds with fellow pony club parents by boasting tea and coffee making facilities in their elaborate, home-from-home, horse-box.
- Pippa, the hairy native, suddenly realising her dreams of the rodeo ring the same moment your ‘non horsey’ relatives come to spectate. In doing so diminishing any chance of your cousins ever getting within sniffing distance of anything with four legs that exceeds a well-built Labrador.
- Becoming a contortionists and flashing misfortunate fellow road users in order to get changed in the car on the journey from school, to the highly anticipated Friday evening pony club rally. All of this whilst straddling a saddle and simultaneously shoving your sibling, somehow never actually being ready when you arrive with -5 minutes to spare.
- Dads being completely uninvolved and in opposition to all things pony, until the moment you don’t win whereupon they take a deep and unsympathetic scrutinising interest.
- Tack and turnout Tuesdays and Thursdays made everyone involved lose the will to live with the exception of the overtly smug inspector, who lived for the moment and was responsible for locating the smallest freckle of dirt on the underside of a stirrup.
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