In a field near the next village there is Shetland pony. Fascinated by its scale, I put my hand through the fence to stroke it and the pony locks its teeth around my arm. I scream and pull but the pony is determined – its teeth sinking deeper into my flesh. My dad arrives but still the monster won’t let go.
Sometimes I hate my father. He can scare me, and when he comes back from London the hair of his moustache is rough on the skin of my cheek. Sometimes though, he is a hero. He blocks the nostrils of the malevolent beast and the pony lets go so that it can breathe.