I am distracted when Mimi asks me if I’m all right because Ruth Wingfield is surging towards us, smiling brightly. She has put on lipstick, powder and scent, and a Hermès headscarf, I note, for her public appearance. ‘Room for a little one?’ she says.

Mimi gets chatting to Ruth. ‘Have you been in this part of the world long?’ Ruth enquires. She is being super-friendly to Mimi, but Mimi is not to know that the reason for Ruth’s warmth is that Ruth is a relative newcomer too (she has only been a resident of Honeyborne for five years, which counts as having only just arrived). She is in her early fifties, and rather good-looking, sparkling blue eyes, high colour, glossy dark mane, etc., the sort of woman described in her prime as handsome.

‘So, do you ride?’ I hear her ask, in a pause.

I see Mimi flinch at the question, which is going to force her into a shocking admission if she answers truthfully.

‘No,’ says Mimi. ‘Well, not for ages. Not properly.’ But it is too late to row back – Mimi has already seen the look of horror cross Ruth’s face, as if registering that the earth had slightly wobbled on its axis.

‘What?’ Ruth can’t help but blurt out. She looks over to me for help. A woman with all her faculties apparently intact has left town – left London – and moved with her three able-bodied children to Honeyborne, Dorset… and she doesn’t ride!

Mimi looks agonized. Luckily for everyone (I don’t think I could face another excursion to the stables right now), Ruth relents, as Mimi explains that she is keen for the children to ride, and she is in the process of sorting it out now.

‘Truth be told, even I can’t ride at the moment, I’ve got this blasted horse,’ I hear her saying to Mimi, her mouth pulled down into a grimace, so we can admire a corn-yellow collection of niblets in her lower jaw.

Of course, I’ve lived in Honeyborne for years, so I know that when someone horsey like Ruth says, ‘I’ve got this blasted horse,’ it means they have a horse that’s lame and no use to man nor beast, just as when a war hero says, ‘I’ve got this silly leg,’ what they really mean is that they’ve had a leg amputated.

‘Bodger’s got pus,’ Ruth confirms, in a loud voice. ‘Bloody bore, excuse my French. Vet’s been in not once but twice, that will be two hundred pounds thank you very much, first thought it was a tendon even though any fool could see it was the fetlock hot and throbbing. Didn’t believe me till we took Bodger’s shoe off and… well, I don’t want to go into it, it is almost lunchtime,’ she goes on.