Saturday: It hits

Polo grooming is a bit like an abusive relationship. You get all the bruising, sweating and aching, swearing that it'll be the last time you suffer through it. Next thing you know, you're back on the proverbial horse as if none of it ever happened.

See even though I was having the worst day of my short polo grooming career, I was stubborn about not wanting to quit. My work history at home has consisted of me finding something I love, doing it for free, before gradually getting disillusioned and losing interest. Time and time again the going gets tough, so I get going. Granted, a lot of it's to do with the non-payment. If you're working for free, you expect something in return. I've stuck this job out so far because in return for my hard work, I get free accommodation, food and a lovely family to live with. My bank account has remained practically untouched since January. Ultimately, it means I can travel for longer and experience things I otherwise wouldn't. It's just slowly, the hours have upped, the time off has heavily depleted. It was time to weigh up what I wanted.

I woke up on Saturday feeling resigned. I didn't want to quit, but I didn't want to spend my time away being miserable and knackered. There were two games to get through before we could pack up and head home. Two games that Matty was playing in now too, so I'd be doing everything myself. It was a decider in more ways than one.

The routine begins. Saddles first, followed by three bridles, then the plaited tail gets folded up and taped in place, top, middle and bottom. Girths are tightened and I walk the first pony out to the Polo Player. The game horn sounds.

First horse plays half a chukka, comes back. The next goes out.

Then, panic.

The pace switches. Suddenly, you're throwing tack off the first horse onto the truck, unravelling bandages and ripping the tail free of the tape. Headcollar on. Taking the heavily breathing, sweating horse, it's veins visible through the drenched fur, and running with it towards the nearest hose. Cold water sprays and mud splatters up your legs, the horse throws its head in the air, spins in circles, unable to stand still. Now soaked, you run it back to the horsebox, fingers fumbling with the rope as you tie it up. Three minutes gone. The second horse is already back. The third is out. Your breathing is going mental. Fuck, shit, bollocks where is the sodding...ah, there. Ok. ARGH. Remember the second horse is going out again in the fifth chukka. Right. Keep it's bandages on and tail up. The fourth and fifth horse needs saddles on. Wash the third. Tack up the first again.

Then... just like that, adrenaline hits.

The pace is the same, but you've got everything under control. You're enjoying yourself. It's calm all of a sudden. You're smiling, even. One by one, the horses go out and you're experiencing a rush of happiness. Quit? This? No, no. I'm grooming for a whole game on my own for the first time. Think how much better I'll be next week! Why would I give up now?

Twenty minutes later, the Polo Player appears in his car. My legs are streaked with brown watermarks, my hat shields the sun from half a grubby face. There's black under my nails and my white t-shirt is stained with horse sweat, leather and dust. There's blood, not mine, on my arm.

He hands me a bottle of Victoria Bitter and a packet of crisps and says 'JoJo, you look like a polo groom'.

Adrenaline makes my decision for me. I'll give it another couple of weeks.

I'm easily won.