When I was younger I wanted a pony. On the last Sunday of each month, with ceremony and reverence, The Mooroolbark Pony Club would meet; but only people lucky enough to own a pony could enter. I would watch the pony club competitions each month from the cover of long grass filled with the hope that someday I too could be part of the show. Alas, the years drifted on and it seemed my dream would never become a reality, until one day some new neighbors arrived. They were a large family that included their grandfather, an ogreish man with girlish lips and a fragmented memory. So I hatched a cunning plan; I abducted the grandfather, painted him brown and strapped a saddle to his back. He wasn’t the prettiest mount in the pony club that day but he certainly cleared those hurdles with gusto. Sadly he fell at the end of our third run and broke a leg. With a tear in my eye and a high-powered rifle in my hands I sent him to horsey heaven. Still, I got a participation ribbon and that is what is important.