So, no more talk of Dr Who, then.

There's loads of other things I can write about. Having had to sit through all of those "writing intensive" courses at my two colleges in the first half of this decade, reckon I should try and make some use out of it...don't need many writing skills, as a telemarketer...which is fine, I did a tiny bit of voice and public speaking studies at school, as well..so at least I'm putting that to use.

Well, as some of you know, I was a horse-crazy kid. Never owned one, of course--tho' I did talk mum and dad into buying me a cheap used--very used, western saddle, for my 15th birthday, so I could take western lessons at the hunting/jumping stable up the road from us, in Loundonville.

In high school, in my senior year, back when I was 18, I was in this "apprenticeship" programme--it was an experimental programme, that allowed 4th year students to go out and try out a career for a month.

Well, I ended up at "Mill Pond Stables." This was a semi-posh western and hunt seat stable, about 4 or 5 miles from our school. It boasted 50 horses and an indoor arena with tiered seating for horse show audiences, also a tack shop and big lounge, and vending machines (my first introduction to coffee--it was awful!) It had a tannoy, and..well, for a stable of that era, it was rather posh.

The owner was thin, stooped cowboy who was always wearing a hat--one day, a horse snatched it off his head, and I found out why he never took his hat off: vanity. The man was as bald as an egg.

He taught "western balanced riding" known then as the "Monty Foreman Method." I still to this day, prefer to ride "balanced," even when being taught by other instructors.

Anyway, the owner wasn't thrilled with my being there--seems he was full up of stable rats, as we horse-crazy girls were sometimes unattractvely called. It's sort of like a mall brat, but we preferred to look at new saddles in the tack shop and discuss points of confirmation, rather than gaze at clothing in the mall and discussing boys.

So, the owner would manage to find stupid little jobs for me to do: clean the glass globes in the light fixtures in the lounge, take apart and put away the jumps, toss hay to the horses in the stalls, water down the sand-filled big indoor ring with a hose--oh, there was a fun and rewarding job...not. But, I was around horses, so no complaints from me.

But...the owner had just a bit of a mean streak in him. He used to focus it on a boy who worked there, but when the kid quit, suddenly, it was my turn.

Now, the pranks were usually harmless: one time I was strutting about like a peacock, 'cos my mum and dad had just bought me a beautiful shiny new pair of western riding boots. It was while I was watering the ring, he came in with the tractor and the harrow, on the pretence of smoothing the rink, knowing all the while that I would come out of it, coated with an inch of sand--looking for all the world like I'd just slogged through a sandstorm for miles. He got himself a big laugh out of that...and the combination of the spray from my hose and the "sandstorm"....well, my shiny black boots were caked brown. Took me weeks to get them shiny again. (Hence the nickname "dustyboots" was born.)

Another time, he asked me to take over the till in the tack shop, while he ran out to the vending machine for a soda. Well, I went to ring up a sale, and the till drawer popped open--and there was a great big ugly rubber spider in there. Yes, I yelped. I hate spiders. The "customer" was in on it, too, and they both had another good laugh off of me.

But one time, one of his little pranks nearly back-fired on him, in a serious way.

The owner was training a young colt in the indoor, and he dismounted and asked me to take the horse in to the stable area, and untack him. Okay, he'd never asked me to do that before, but I was young and naive, right?
I was actually quite chuffed at being given such a big responsibility, as it was a 30,000 dollar reining furturity prospect--so this futurity prospect was owned by RCA records or some such. And incidentally, that amount of money shelled out for him in 1979, would be like 80,000 today, roughly. I mean, I was REALLY chuffed to be given his care!

Yeah. Not for long.

The owner handed me the reins, with that wicked grin on his face....and too soon, I found out why. As soon as I got halfway to the gate, the colt took the bit in his teeth and began dragging me along with him. Now, as I recall, the horse weighed probably 800 pounds, and I'd yet to be taught how to control an unruly horse properly.

Well, it might have been okay, but just as we got to the closed gate, someone came along and opened it, to bring another horse in.

The colt--with me still holding the reins, literally bolted through the open gate, and out into the stable aisle--dragging me--and I do mean, dragging, because idiot girl here, was too damned shocked to just let go, out through the barn. It was when he headed for the partly open door, that I was almost killed--because it was only open wide enough for the horse...not for a horse and some stupid teenager.

Just as I was about to have my head bodily flung into the edge of huge solid metal sliding door--inches from it, the old lightbulb went off in my head. You know, the one that said, "Doh--let go, you moron!"

Of course, was the owner upset that I almost got decapitated? Nahh-he was ticked off because I let the horse get loose! I got so, I really wasn't very fond of that man, after a while. I may be slow, but I do get there eventually.