Horsegate: My hacking memories, by Raisa the horse Muck, muck and more muck. That's what we want," she would say. But be sure you're out of the way by this evening, because I've got important people coming to visit. Run along and make some phone calls. Rebekah would sometimes take me out hacking in the country and, when she did, she was on her mobile all the time. I used to refer to these outings as phone hacking. She seemed to get a lot of bad news on the phone, but always took it very well. "So, they are splitting up, are they?" she would say. What wonderful news! She's walked out and shacked up with a footballer? Love it! She also got phone calls from someone called Rupert. I had to stand very still, at attention, when she received these calls. Oh, Rupert, how super of you to call. Yes, everything is going well. It's all under control. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Give my love to Wendi. I also remember the moment when I realised I had that Mr Cameron in the saddle on my back. It was approximately 10.34 and I was proceeding in a westerly direction along a bridle path in Oxfordshire. That's the way we used to put it when I was in the Mounted Division of the Met. The birds were singing in a manner likely to cause a breach of the peace and the flies were gathering in a disorderly assembly round my face. Anyway, the man on the horse beside me - I think he was called Charlie something - said: "So, tell me a little bit about your policies, Dave." This Dave started talking about something he called the Big Society. My mind soon began to wander and I thought about my happy foalhood and the good old days in the Met, attending demonstrations against the Iraq war and controlling the football supporters at West Ham. And I thought about the ceremonial duties, as well, and remembered working alongside the Household Cavalry. Those mares were absolute bitches. After Dave had been droning on for some time about the Big Society, the horse next to me seemed to get suddenly spooked, and it took off, galloping at high speed into the distance, clearing two or three hedges. Then this Dave took a call from a friend of his called Steve Hilton. "Yes, Steve, that's an absolutely brilliant idea," he said. Sitting facing backwards on a horse obviously makes a lot of sense. It's just that I'm not sure if the horse is ready for it at the moment. Let's give that one a bit more thought. Oh, and standing up on its back like they do in circuses? Excellent notion. I certainly believe it's worth considering that. Mention it to William Hague. Following information received in the stable that night, I had reason to believe that this Dave was, in fact, the alias of a certain Mr Cameron who earned a living as leader of an organisation known as the Conservative Party. Unusually for an equine mammal, I happen to be a bit Left-wing, so you can imagine that I was not entirely delighted by the idea of having a Tory on my back, digging his spurs into my side and telling me to gee up. One member of the Chipping Norton set who really got on my withers was called Jeremy Clarkson. I called him Chummy. He had opinions about everything and he didn't keep them to himself. When he got in the saddle, he'd say "Let's see how she accelerates," and he'd really dig his heels into my flanks and go "Brrrrmmm brrrrmmmm." He would tug hard on one side of the reins and say: "Seems to corner pretty well. Handles nicely on the bends. If I hadn't been trained so well in the Met, I would have given him a bunch of hooves. On the other hand, I have to admit that Dave treated me pretty well. He brought me a carrot. "I have the carrot," he said. Look out for George Osborne because he has the stick. I remember when we were alone, as we rode along, he said: "You see, Raisa, I want to appeal to all sorts of horses, not just the thoroughbreds. I want to reach out to ponies and bring carthorses into the fold. Yes, Shetland ponies have a lot to offer, we must release the potential of showjumpers, and I want to emphasise that I have absolutely no prejudice against geldings. Maybe it was my years in the Met, but I couldn't help feeling cynical about all this. Ruder individuals than me would call it horse ----. Oh, those happy days in the force, the banter and the camaraderie in the stables. The gossip about the misdemeanours of celebrities. I still miss it. I remember the sad day it all came to an end. All the top brass in the Metropolitan Police showed up for my leaving party, but then suddenly they all disappeared. "Sorry, got an important meeting in The Ivy," they said. Or: "My presence is urgently required at Scott's restaurant." Or: "Must dash. I have to see a man about a magnum of Veuve Clicquot. After that, life in Chipping Norton seemed dull.