AFTER half a century of sitting behind a desk and lifting nothing heavier than a ballpoint pen, I have recently joined the World of Real Work.

I have abandoned council meetings, press releases and chatting to local dignitaries to become Fat Jim Hornswoggle, temporary horse wrangler and rodeo rider extraordinaire.

Fed up with being fed up with being retired, I have been helping out with the care of horses for a week or two.

Despite the fact that my only acquaintance with horseflesh was riding a donkey at Blackpool as a child, I jumped at the chance to get down and dirty on a farm.

While my dream from being about eight was writing for a living, coming a close second was being a farmer, and spending long days tramping over springy heather with a lamb over my shoulder and a faithful collie at my side.

So despite my lack of stock handling experience, I took up the equine baton, hoping fervently that my dodgy knee, wonky hip and suspect back would be up to the rigours of manual labour.

The first job was unearthing the requisite protective clothing from the depths of the garage, and it took quite a while to locate the waterproof leggings I bought after a thorough wet-to-the-underpants drenching while boat fishing at Kielder.

I also located a pair of bright yellow reflective pants, but have not yet worn them for fear they will startle the horses.

A 20-year-old fleece and a pair of heavy duty wellies completed my outfit, and I was ready to go.

I was issued with a heavy duty brush, a long-handled fork, known as a graip, and a large plastic tub, and tasked with mucking out a row of stalls that made me feel like Hercules as he eyed the Augean Stables for the first time.

The fleece was soon discarded as I worked up a sweat, as the graip flew and the tub filled with malodorous effluvia. I then had to spread fresh straw and to my chagrin, the resident horses were so delighted with their comfortable new lodgings they immediately lost control of their bowels.

The second box contained a proud stallion, who harrumped his displeasure at my invading his space, and greeted me with a little nip to the arm.

I soon fell into the rhythm of things though, and was delighted that my limbs proved up to the job of emptying the brimming tubs of ordure into a tractor bucket for removal to the midden.

While my sweeping was rated at only five out of 10 – my seafaring father once said in disgust : “You brush up like a Wren” – my shovelling of what some have said I used to write was sufficiently up to scratch for me to be invited to return the next day.

Among my duties then was assisting in the apprehension of some ponies which required medication. The first six were cooperative, and took their medicine like men, but the tossing manes and flying tails of the other three were rather more of a challenge.

I helped to corner number seven, who was dosed with some difficulty, but the capture of number eight proved a bigger challenge. Efforts to put the head collar in place were firmly resisted, so when an opportunity arose, I dived in to lock both arms round the beast’s neck for the collar to be applied.

The pony took off like Red Rum, with me clinging to its neck desperately, taking huge Rudolf Nureyev leaps and bounds to keep pace as it thundered round the pen three times before depositing me against the stable wall in a thunder of hooves

The ensuing silence was only broken by the gasps and sobs of my companion, as she shuddered in paroxysms of uncontrollable mirth at my audition for the next Calgary Stampede

I was completely unhurt after my rodeo-riding debut, and as if by way of apology, my runaway steed allowed itself to be treated once we got our breath back.

The ninth horse was equally cooperative – I think it had enjoyed the show too.

The one drawback to my equine exploits is the all-pervading horsey smell. Even after using a vat of Radox, a scrubbing brush, Swarfega and a bottle of expensive after shave, I still smell like Desert Orchid’s blanket.