You can ride a horse in London. It will be a filly, tall and twitchy and brilliantly muscular. It will be grey and speckled – almost dirty – or snow white or the colour of light oak. Its mane might be plaited or else brushed straight, and its tail will be long and wiry. It will have on a saddle and a buckled bridle and it will wear them regularly. Stable hands will look on, their boots deep in damp straw. They will seem small. It will astonish you – a horse’s size.

When you reach the saddle, you will be asked to stretch your toes deep into metal stirrups. You height, then, will be thrilling. You will see for miles, first the roofs of the stables, then the roof of the pub next-door. And when you move, you will feel the movement. At first a heave and then a whirl. It won’t take long before you are moving as fast as a car. Soon the city will be gone and only green will rush past. The horse’s name will be Champer or Pod or Rafferty. They fly, these fillies. And you will be flying too.