Fear not dear Chums. Not a lot beats old Fawcett! I may well have found the answer. On hearing about this contraption I jumped at the chance and have just purchased the latest device that should aid me in my quest to improve my riding. What? ;}> Fawcett.

Bump! Ooooowh! Balderdash! Doctor! Blast this for a game of soldiers, I’m off! Nursing a sore derriere I return home with my tail between my legs, my bowler hat crushed and my ego severely dented. What on earth is a man to do? Peeved. Fawcett.

Y’Gads, I implore, watch over me. With a firm resolve and a freshly stiffened upper lip I enter the paddock in Pirbright sitting on piebald pony. By Jupiter. Fawcett.

Ah, Miss Proudfoot. Now there’s a name to conjure with! For many years she had been the pen behind Aunt Prudence, with her widely admired column published in the popular ‘Gals Own’ weekly. Prudence Proudfoot, for this was she, was well known for doling out sound advice on spotty complexion problems and appropriate behaviour with one's first boyfriend etc. Toodle Pip. Fawcett.

Painfully aware of my lack of horsemanship and with needs most apparent, I have taken the bit between my teeth as it were and enrolled in Miss Proudfoot’s Equestrian Academy for the sons and daughters of the Nobility in Surrey. What Ho! Fawcett.

Now horses and I have never really seen eye to eye, too blasted independent for my liking. I had last ridden at school and I can recall vividly on one occasion jumping a fence and leaving the animal, that for no apparent reason had come to a grinding halt, nonchalantly chewing on a bush whilst I stuck out from the ground like a spent firework neck deep in mud. Fawcett.

With the departure date for my expedition to the Black Hills of South Dakota drawing close, comes the dreadful dawning realisation that the only possible form of transport, beyond shanks that is, will be a blessed mule train, with the prospectors to include yours truly obliged to ride horses. Damn and Blast! Fawcett.