When I get up the nerve to do anything other than flatwork or light hacking, I need to don the dreaded back protector, and let’s face it, unless you are six foot plus and a size zero, things are not going to go well. As for me, well I look like Humpty dumpty on a horse on my “thin” days. These are the odd days after which I have had either food poisoning or a tummy bug for at least a week.

Being short and fat makes things a tad challenging – you see if you zip your gut into a non-forgiving Kevlar vest, well it has to spill out somewhere. So it’s going to spill out either over or under the said back protector. So wearing a properly fitting back protector while standing up in the tack shop might seem a good idea…….. IRL – in real life, you are goosed. I have fallen off because I was so trussed up I couldn’t get my gut out of the way – true story and I have witnesses but I ensured that all photographic evidence was destroyed.

I did try and take the more flattering route earlier this year but she who must be obeyed (you will meet her later) was not at all impressed, so another wasted purchase and money which could have been better spent on lessons so I have less of a chance of falling off, or rugs……..rugs to me are like pork chops to Homer Simpson.

As my diva of a cob keeps needing stuff, shoes, physio, dentists, rugs, treats, supplements, special feed & saddle pads; and the stuff that I have never been able to save up enough for, like the very nice air jackets – I will be 60 next year and will add it to my amazon wish list.

So there I am laced tighter than a Victorian lady, trying to sit astride an overfed cob with attitude and lads, it’s not a pretty sight, let’s just say that Champion or Racesafe won’t be looking at us as potential models. I have to wear a child’s sized back protector for the length but then you have the issue of the boobs – so they are zipped in but have to go somewhere, another problem comes to bear……… they spill out over the back protector and prevent your chin from moving down or head over under your arms which means you are riding like you are doing the chicken dance.

So you manage with the help of another kindly older cob owner or two to get it zipped up and then you either have to have great mobility or a very, very tall and sturdy mounting block in order to be able to get on board or, if you have the funds, a cherry picker. That and someone to hold the head of the opinionated cob for the three minutes you need (at least) in order to get on.

And at last, you are in the saddle and have managed to move around the overspill so that you can see and move a bit. At this stage after all of the faffing around, you are ready to get off – it’s tiring getting this far not to mention actually having to ride and if you are in any way hormonal, you are sweating more than an overweight jockey on race day.

So either your friends shame you into staying on, or if you have one who must be obeyed (see above) you will be too afraid to bail. That and the expensive instructor who is there to try and teach you to trot over what the HSA would consider a tripping hazard. You pull up your big knickers, blow your nose into your sleeve (the kind of snot that makes bubbles) and say a decade of the rosary – and me a lapsed catholic – and thank whoever is up there that we didn’t wet ourselves either today and our saddle won’t suffer.

We move into the safest arena – the indoor with all the doors closed, just in case. We self consciously walk around remembering to keep a contact, sit up, keep the heels down and look where we are going, while throwing side-eyes at the new instructor giving the primary showjumping clinic.

He divides us into two groups; crippled and terrified – and as you know, you will get away with your bolshy cobs bad behaviour by saying he/she is just a baby really and very green (this could range anything from 5 to 10 years old) – you use it to death – he won’t move “they are very green”. Spooks at his own shadow, “aw just a baby”, farts and bucks any time asked to move forward to trot “its nerves, very green, just a baby”. We would never make it on the Golf Course as golf is a game of honour.

We do his bidding in as much as we can – and we are all congratulating ourselves for staying on and breaking into a canter for a half circle even after the warm up. Then he calls us to all turn towards him and it is then we notice that while we were praising ourselves and trying to get some air between us and the fiendish back protector………. he has put up jumps. Real jumps and more than two and those cross poles are very high off the ground. The flushed faces caused by the back protector have just turned grey. We egged on the acknowledged group leader to explain to the instructor that we don’t usually jump that big or that many.

Needless to say, that went down like a lead balloon and we were looked at with barely concealed scorn which was mostly hidden behind the obligatory mug of tea.

He gave his instructions and asked for someone to please take the lead and go first………..and it was me, I took the lead and left the arena at a brisk trot………………I usefully taught the cob to stand while I opened and closed the indoor arena door during the summer. We were gone before the lovely instructor had finished cleaning the steam from his tea off of his glasses.

Taking off a full back protector is like taking off very high heels after a day’s work or dancing and taking off your bra at the end of a long day, it’s pure bliss. I hung the back protector up and untacked the cob who was delighted with himself, the sod.

Might stick to the dressage clinics for a while – meanwhile, I am not being spoken to by the rest of the group, will have to do some serious sucking up by bringing their lovely mounts treats for weeks and weeks on end – god bless Aldi & Lidl and their super six.