Back in the Saddle

Last week I went for a horseride.

Two hours in the Kurwongbah bush atop a mighty bay mare named Diva.

She quite possibly wasn't that mighty, and certainly seemed a bit skittish about me. But still, the ride was restorative. The sky was a perfect May blue, the autumn breeze mild, and the sun deliciously warming.

At one point, as Diva sped up from a trot to a canter - I fell off.

I'm not sure how it happened. I think possibly I just forgot how to hold on. But it was a spectacular accidental dismount - I wrapped my arms around her neck, then slowly slid to the right, and round in front of her forelegs.

I thought she was going to tread on me, but I wound up off to her left, sitting slightly stunned and wondering if anything was broken. A quick internal audit thankfully came up with nothing.

The other riders were understandably concerned, but of course the first thing out of my mouth was "I'm so sorry, everyone!"

They told me to sit and rest for a moment, but I didn't want to hold up the ride.

So while it was possibly the most ungainly re-mount ever - I got back in the saddle.

MY GOD IT'S LIKE A METAPHOR FOR LIFE OR SOMETHING.

When I got home, I discovered that my poor doughy thighs were obviously not used to being pressed up against leather for 120 minutes - I got a marvellous case of saddle-bruising.

The epic scale of Man Booker prize-winning historical novel Wolf Hall
is an appropriate match for the epic scale of my thigh bruising.

This is my life. I survive a horse fall with nary a mark - but I get bruised.... from sitting.