I am firm in my belief that, whether you’re three, thirteen, thirty, or some derivative thereof, if you have a pony (or, indeed, a horse that you lovingly refer to as a pony), then you’ve been tempted, at some point, to bring it into your house. Yeah, okay, it would be impractical. HELLISH on the carpets, possibly the end of your soft-furnishings, perhaps the end of any co-habitation situation you might be otherwise enjoying. But: ponies! Ponies on the sofa! Ponies binging The Good Place! Ponies curling up like lil stinky lapdogs at the foot of your bed, merrily farting their way through the night. Um, blissful.
Anyway, little Harriet the hero took what has merely been a long-standing daydream for those of us who are chronically bonkers and made it a reality, bringing Wicked the pony (sorry, is that not THE best name for a pony?!) into the downstairs loo for a spa day. The best bit?
“Not.
Again.”
Harriet, we salute you (and your high-fashion horsey wardrobe).
