The day my new husband slpit his trousers!

On our honeymoon my brand new husband, from now on called ‘Himself’, was so blinded by love that he even sat on a horse on an out-ride for a painful hour and a half to please me. I had deliberately chosen a 'Beginners' Ride' to accommodate his inexperience.

In fact the horse he was on was SO idle that we lagged far behind the group.

pixabay.

As soon as they were out of sight he sighed with relief and dismounted and sat on a ‘comfortable’ rock easing his aching muscles. (You should have seen him staggering around the next day.)

In those early days I cared about appearances and what they looked like so when I heard the group of riders returning I begged him to get back on his horse. Still eager to please me he climbed back onto his horse and I sighed with relief!

To my horror the gentle reluctant to move horses had turned around and become a posse of bandits. They were galloping home to their stables and obviously some nice oats awaited them.
Before we could blink we were swept up in the bunch of, impossible to stop, mass of horseflesh.

One panic stricken woman who was a first time rider, as most of the others were, was screaming ‘help…oh help………..puleeeze help me!’ I am at home on a horse as I began riding at a very young age, so I was able to help keep her from tumbling from the saddle.

Himself’s face was grim and the stirrup leathers were doing horrible damage to his tender inner thighs as I had forgotten to tell him to wear long trousers. I felt terrible.

As we passed the hotel visitors all having afternoon tea and scones on the open lawn all I could see was their mouths hanging open in astonishment as the ‘beginners’ ride came barreling past in a cloud of dust. Some, who had obviously suffered the same fate, were openly guffawing with laughter.

Himself bailed off his mount like Hop a long Cassidy and landed on his back. He had simply had ENOUGH!

To this day whenever horses come up in conversation he mutters, ‘dangerous at both ends and uncomfortable in the middle.’

When he recovered from his injuries, his pride having suffered the most, he took me down to the hotel’s trampoline to show me his prowess. A few years prior to our marriage he had been an expert and part of the trampoline gymnastic team in the South African Air Force.

He warmed up carefully, reminding his body of tricks and twirls that it had forgotten about.

I was at first his sole admirer but as he got going other people stopped to enjoy the spectacle he was making of himself. He was pretty good and when he did a backward leap and bounced and did a double somersault going forward someone actually ‘oohed’ and clapped.

Naturally that spurred him on and upwards. His final leap was up into the air and he came down a little awkwardly and did the splits somewhat unexpectedly when his long legs his the trampoline. He might have covered up his error if it hadn’t been for his casual trousers that he was wearing. They were totally unsuitable for all these acrobatics and as he hit the canvas there was a loud rrrrripping sound as they spit from the waistband at the back to the zip in front. He revealed his tighty whitey Jockey scants to all and sundry and there was a burst of laughter from his audience.

Being a show off he did another somersault and took a bow before leaping off the trampoline still trying to recover his equilibrium.

Guess who had to borrow a needle and cotton from the housekeeper and perform an emergency repair to his favourite pair of pants?

Tomorrow I will tell you about the time he split another pair of trousers.
On that occasion he was trying to escape a desperate situation!