When I was 11 years old, I had a fight with my mum. Ok, when I was 11 years old I had a lot of fights with my mum. But this one happened on a horse.

“Listen to me Maisie!”, she cried from the other side of the fence. “You’re not ready to jump. Have another go at the floor poles, we’ll try the jump another day.”

Stoney-faced, I stubbornly kicked the sides of my rather portly pony, Skye, who obediently trotted forwards. Another squeeze with my heels, and I’m jiggling around in the saddle, a furious expression of determination plastered on my face as we approach the looming jump.

Ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom - WHOOP - Ba-doom, Ba-doom, Ba-doom.

We made it. Triumphant, I pull Skye back to a walk and glance at my mum, who is still standing on the other side of the fence, arms crossed, and wearing a face like thunder.

“Come. Here. Now”, she growled, pointing a firm finger towards the grass next to her.

I look at where she’s pointing to.

I look down at my chubby hands grasping the leathery brown reins.

Then, I look back at the jump.

“FOR GOODNESS SAKE, STOP THIS RIGHT NOW!”, I hear her screech as I squeeze my heels into Skye’s withers once more, even harder now. We bound forwards into a steady canter, and I shut my eyes and grip onto her grey withers for dear life.

Ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom - WHOOP - Ba - Ba - Ba - Ba da - THUD.

I wail. My mum gasps. I hear Skye’s hooves trot off into the distance, but I can’t see where she’s going as my eyes are squeezed shut. My wrist is screaming, throbbing up and down my arm, and my hand looks wonky.

I had a cast for twelve weeks. It was the best twelve weeks of my life, because all my friends wrote nice messages on it in multicoloured ink, and a boy called Daniel carried my bag to my lessons for me for a whole month.

I’m 26 now. I’m much wiser, and I no longer need scribbles from fair-weather friends or acts of chivalry from boys to make me happy. I have not ridden a horse for over ten years.

One month ago, I went riding with my partner. It was a spontaneous decision to make the most of a particularly nice sunset.

The instructor asked what ability I was, and without a second thought, I told him I was a trained expert with a track record of taming challenging stallions. He looked doubtful, but I know he was impressed.

At least, he was. His expression soon turned to pure annoyance once I landed on my bottom with a fractured ankle about three minutes later.

I’m not telling you to lie about if you can ride a horse, or about if you can do anything in fact. But sometimes, a little embellishment goes a long way.

And you have to admit, it makes for a good story.