So I’ve been gallivanting this week, or jaunting, whichever archaic phrase appeals to you most. The jaunting (or gallivanting), it is much more fun than working. Which is sad to realise, as chances are I will be spending a lot more time working than gallivanting (or jaunting). However, as jaunting (or gallivanting) is on the agenda this week, let me inform you all of my doings. Well, one of my doings. A doing, so to speak.
Yesterday Mr. T and I partook in a trail ride at Airey’s Inlet, on the Great Ocean Road. This involved riding through bush, then down to the beach for a spot of cantering. May I say now that Mr. T and I have not been on horses for a very, very long time. (It is at this point that my lower back muscles would like to interject and add another ‘very’ to that sentence.) Regardless of my (lack of) physical condition today, it was great. Beautiful day, no people around, out of control atop a large animal running for England across the sand. Mr. T discovered why we had to sign those massive insurance disclaimer forms when his girth broke and he slid slowly towards the sand. I was in front (winning! I’m winning!) so all I heard was a strangled ‘yipe!’ and turned to see … only a horse. Mr. T and the saddle were in an ungainly pile behind the horse, who managed to pretend this had nothing to do with him. It was fabulous. Mr. T was completely unhurt, which meant it was perfectly OK for me to laugh till I got the hiccups, and to circle around him taking photos howling “Look at me! I’m a cowboy! Howdy howdy howdy!”. That’s what a good girlfriend does. Ask anyone.
