23/07/2025
Following yesterday’s post about the current horse market, I had this absolute gem sent in by Julie Clarke one of our long time followers who’s known for sending in the odd brilliant bit.
Her take on being a horse seller is hilarious (and painfully accurate).
Please, I beg you, bring a sense of humour and leave your offence at the gate.
You’ll need it. 😂🐴
𝗧𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆, 𝗜’𝘃𝗲 𝗼𝗳𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀𝗲𝘀.
Yes. Hung up the headcollars. Swapped the boots for slippers. Poured myself a sherry and booked a room at Sunny Pines Retirement Lodge for Emotionally Exhausted Horse Sellers.
Why?
Because after this week… I just can’t anymore.
Let me explain.
𝗜𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁 1: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝘀𝘆𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗰 𝗩𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴
A woman messages me asking about a gelding.
“I haven’t seen him,” she says, “but my spiritual mentor reckons he’s got a Sagittarius moon and would clash with my aura. What’s his star sign?”
I reply: “He’s a horse.”
She ignores that and says she’d still like to come. “We’ll see how my crystals feel about him on the day.”
I said no.
She said, “What if I bring my pendulum and see how it swings when I stand near his stable?”
I block her.
𝗜𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁 2: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗵𝗲𝗲𝘀𝗲 𝗠𝗮𝗻
Man turns up. Unannounced. Parked sideways across the yard gate in a Fiat Panda with “I ♥ Starmer” bumper stickers.
Wanders over. Doesn’t introduce himself. Just stares at the mare for a while and says:
“She’s got kind eyes. That’s what matters to me. My last one had evil eyes and turned out to be a pathological liar.”
Then he opens a Tesco bag, takes out half a brie, offers it to her, and says:
“If she takes the cheese, I’ll buy her.”
I ask him to leave.
𝗜𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁 3: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗡𝗲𝗴𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿
Lady calls.
“I saw your advert for the 7yo Connemara. I’d like to negotiate.”
“Negotiate what?” I ask.
She says, “The entire concept.”
She offers half the asking price, wants me to deliver the horse, include a year’s worth of feed, a saddle, bridle, insurance, lessons, and a therapist to talk through her fears of cantering.
When I say no, she says, “You’ve lost a sale.”
I say, “I’ve gained several brain cells back.”
𝗜𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁 4: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗗𝗜𝗬 𝗦𝗵𝗼𝘄𝗷𝘂𝗺𝗽𝗲𝗿
A man asks to view a horse for his wife. Says she’s a “natural.”
She arrives in crocs, no hat, swings onto the horse like she’s getting on a barstool, and points him at a jump despite me saying repeatedly: “He’s not seen poles yet.”
She kicks. He panics. She screams, falls off, and lands in a flowerbed.
He says, “Hmm. Doesn’t look genuine.”
They leave.
I weep quietly into a salt lick.
And finally, the last straw:
A woman messages: “I’m just starting out but I’d like a horse that can do everything.”
I say: “What’s everything?”
She says: “Dressage, hacking, jumping, liberty, must load, clip, go barefoot, do yoga with me, and ideally be under 10, under £5k, and under 16hh because my boyfriend gets nervous around ‘tall energies’.”
I say: “I don’t have that.”
She says: “Call me when you do. I’m manifesting it.”
I said, “I’m manifesting early retirement.”
And that’s what I did.
I now live in Room 6B at Sunny Pines. It has a view of the duck pond and I get jelly on Wednesdays.
I no longer take calls unless it’s about cake, naps, or quiet donkeys.
If you need me, I’ll be in the lounge, muttering “he’s not suitable for your three-year-old niece” into a cup of lukewarm tea.
Horse sales?
Not anymore.
I’ve ascended
Photo Credit: Juile Clarke
