HAVE you ever wondered what a horse with a cold does when its nose (rather than its legs) starts to run?

Well, you may not know, or care, but I'll tell you. It gets its dripping nostrils wiped with a big, BIG handful of tissues, just like you or me. Or it should do. How do I know these things? Experience of course.

In the ordinary, day-to-day routine of my life, I have very little to do with horses. I rarely come into contact with them and even less frequently does my bottom connect with a saddle on a gee-gee's back.

In horsey circles some riders are said to possess a "good seat" - this, I believe, means they not only manage to stay upright on a horse but look pretty impressive doing so, too. Princess Anne has a good seat, I do not. In fact, HRH and myself actually have very little in common. Surprising, isn't it?

Last week, however, full of cold and far from these shores and the restraining influence of caring relatives and friends, I allowed myself to be persuaded that a good ride was just what I needed.

"We tried to match a rider with a horse that we feel suits their personality," I was told at the stables. Which was how I came to be introduced to April, a slightly faded chestnut mare of middle years.

April was not a big horse. Well, that's what I was told, but to me she looked enormous and when we were given the instruction to mount up, I hit a major problem. Being short, I couldn't even get my foot in the stirrup.

Help was at hand, however, in the strapping form of a former rugby player who put his shoulder under my rear end and heaved. It was not a graceful exercise but it got me in the saddle - and oh, shock horror, wasn't the ground a long way down!

April, however, seemed keen to reassure me that she and I were indeed temperamentally suited. She ambled along at the back of the group, pausing to nibble at tempting foliage and grass, occasionally lowering her head to drink in a stream. Just like me on my way to work, I thought, stopping off at the newsagents for a chocolate treat and the bakery for a jam doughnut.

Ibegan to like April and I had a feeling she liked me too - well, she had neither tried to bite me nor throw me into a river, which has happened during previous equestrian exploits.

Istarted to chat to her as we passed through the woods. I told her about those earlier unpleasant experiences and confessed I had been wary of her at first, had not wanted to share her company, had dreaded the very activity which was now proving so enjoyable.

April made little snorting noises and coughed. I realised she had a cold, just like me. As soon as we had dismounted (OK, when the others had dismounted and I had been manhandled again by the rugby player), I went to sympathise with the snuffling April, to offer her a wad of my Kleenex.

April responded to my show of kindness immediately. Her gentle gaze met mine, she lowered her soft brown eyes, turned her head ... and wiped her big, wet nose all the way down the front of my jacket.

Idon't wish to sound cruel but in my opinion it's not only dead horses that should be flogged.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.