Now, I knew Perthshire is fritefly posh and awfully double-barrelled. I was in halls at university with a boy from Perthshire; the first line of his address that didn't contain a part of his surname was 'Perthshire'. He was devastatingly handsome, and Maddy and I referred to him as 'Beautiful Charlie.'
He used to pop by my room late at night, complaining he couldn't sleep, and I would make him camomile tea and we would have deep and meaningful chats. Until Maddy found out, and put a stop to it, by buying him his own packet of camomile tea and firmly telling him that now he wouldn't have to bother Cassandra any more. Cow.
It was probably for the best, my extremely egalitarian father still hasn't forgiven me for the time I brought an Old Etonian home; he insisted on loudly referring to the poor blameless boy as 'The Chinless Wonder'. He'd have disinherited me if I'd married Proper Poshness. But then again, I would have had a castle and an Aga, so probably wouldn't have much cared!
I digress! Back to Perth Show! I jumped at the idea of mingling with betweeded horsey folk all day, and dashed to TK Maxx to buy a new hamper, deeming my old one too tattered to be worthy of Perth. I packed enough food to feed most of Perthshire; donned the Dubarrys; swathed myself in every pearl I owned, and piled emergency Barbours, children, hampers and The Terror into the Mighty Honda and beetled off up the A9.
Along the way, I passed many signs advertising the horse trials at the end of the summer, at Beautiful Charlie's ancestral pile, and wondered if perhaps our eyes should meet today, across a ringful of prancing horses? Of course, the fiendish children, the Terror and my wedding ring would rather put a dampener on any Jilly Cooper style frolics. Then the sat nav beeped a warning of impending speed cameras, and the Beast farted and the Terror bit him, and I wrenched my mind from impure thoughts to concentrate on the road and shouting at the children again.
Arriving at Perth Show was bliss. Admittedly the hamper was very fucking heavy and we had to carry it for miles, and the Beast moaned and the Terror was actually foaming at the mouth with excitement, but once we located the Farmers and their splendid trailer and stood around beside the horse, being horsey, it was divine!
Dubarrys and breeches and tweed and girls galloping around on great big horses with their hair in shiny buns as far as the eye could see! It was just like Riders! I was almost foaming at the mouth with excitement too!
Saff put the years and years of riding lessons I have forked out for in the secret hope she will one day marry Poshness to good use, and did horsey things with Mrs Farmer, while I stood a goodly distance away and said helpful things like "Nice horsey" and hoped no one would ask anything equine related of me, at which point I would have to admit I am scared shitless of the big fucking bastards and know nothing about them.
Eventually we had to leave the safety of the trailer and make our way to the ring (eyes peeled for Beautiful Charlie all the while). Ringside, I forgot all about His Beauteousness, as firstly the horses here were very bloody big and scary and charging around with their enormous sodding great bollocks bouncing in the breeze, towing craggy faced, tweedy women, who were actually laying about them with a whip shouting "Clear the way." I edged closer to Mr Farmer, whimpering slightly. He attempted to comfort me by explaining it was a stallion class coming out. I was not comforted. Jilly had said nothing on the subject of insane stallions and their uncontrollable bollocks (apart from Rupert, obviously).
It got worse! Mr F wandered away to talk to someone, probably about cows, and Mrs F's class was delayed. She thrust the rope at me and breezily said "Hold her, will you, while I ask the steward what's happening." Saff, my only hope of salvation, had taken the Terror for a walk in a futile effort to calm him down, and I was alone, holding the Lovely Horse, responsible not only for her, but also for the Beast and Farmer Boy, who were intent on getting kicked by some or other mad horse, and still surrounded by enormous great stallions dashing around like something from the Charge of The Light Brigade.
Wailing to the boys to stop standing behind giant horses, I gingerly patted the Lovely Horse, and mumbled my stock phrase of "Nice horsey, good horsey". She bit me. I did not drop the rope, though I considered crying. She then set off in one direction, while the boys went in another. I hoped against hope to be rescued, ideally by Beautiful Charlie, but Mr or Mrs Farmer would do. No rescue, either romantic or prosaic happened. I tried to pretend I was Tory at the first show, when Jake asks her to hold a horse, and she does it, even though she is scared. It didn't really help with my two pronged issue of boys heading in one direction and horse heading in another, and all of them ignoring my futile pleas for them to stop and come back. Finally the fucking horse found its friend, and I pretended we had meant to go over there all along. Mrs Farmer returned and I flung the rope at her, then nobly volunteered to take the boys round the show to see what there was.
What there was, was mini quad bikes. It cost me £40 to entertain them there for the next hour, but we were far from the horses, so it was totally worth it. Hunger drove us back to the trailer, and the vast picnic, where we found a jubilant Mrs Farmer, insisting on pinning a plethora of rosettes about her person. Mr Farmer made a rude comment about where she should pin them, adding if she could get the ribbons to twirl in different directions, he would be very impressed. For shame, such smut amidst the tweed!
But I was left. The Lovely Horse was at least tied up this time, and I stayed well away from its bitey teeth. I arranged myself elegantly on the ramp of the horsebox, draped my pearls more becomingly, bribed the Terror with sausage rolls and waited for Beautiful Charlie to appear, stop with a start and say "Cassandra? Is it really you? My God, you're even lovelier than you were when you were 18! I've never stopped thinking about you, come away with me now to my enormous great castle and vast acreage and many Agas, I cannot live without you!" At which point I would tragically renounce him, explaining I must return to my husband and children, and alas, his acres and Agas would have to find someone else. "Don't be sad Charlie, you must think of me no more. Find another, Charlie. Adieu." Probably. Or maybe I'd just abandon the horse, who was having a terrifyingly copious piss by now, and the children, and gather up the Terror and ride off into the sunset. Anyway, Charlie failed to appear and declare himself, so I just dicked about on Facebook till the others returned.
That evening, we were going out in town, to meet friends. As I handed the DC my empty glass for the umpteenth time, and slurred "Gin me" and he trotted off to the bar, I decided I hadn't done too badly. I may even have mumbled "I luff you, thingy" as he steadied me to the taxi.
