After the boys we get the girls and it’s Ima out of the stalls first. She thunders across the dusty ground, the poor goat shivering in horror at her approach, looking for all the world like it’s about to burst into tears. Snap, Ima’s lasso is out and whirling. Snap, she curves her spine over the saddle and throws. Snap, she straightens up and the noose tightens around the goat’s neck. I watch in awe as she sails off her horse without worrying about which side to dismount or getting her toe snagged in the stirrup, and pounces on the hapless panting goat, gathering its four legs together and whipping rope around them. Her fingers fly nimbly over the animal’s hooves, and having secured the final knot she raises an arm in triumph as though having delivered a faultless performance of Rachmaninov’s Third, which I suppose in go-tang terms she probably has. Like old pros the children look to the clock and wait for the rumble of the loudspeaker to announce her time.