When I was a kid, all I wanted for Christmas was a pony.
Just after my 52nd birthday, Santa finally delivered.
I'm now the ridiculously excited owner of a sweet-natured, 10-year-old mare named Reyn.
How did a city slicker who grew up in the suburbs end up happily stomping through muddy paddocks with dirt under her nails and poo on her boots, my friends and family have wondered.
It's my mid-life crisis.
"Better than me running off with a younger bloke," I tell my poor suffering husband.
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Article written by: Natasha Johnson