I do love Royal Ascot. Not because I like horse racing or horses but because the event always transforms Oxford train station into a scene from a wedding.

True, the bride and bridegroom may be missing, but frankly that’s all.

Every day last week among the commuters and other passengers, there were areas of the station that became, quite literally, ghettos...

Gangs of women in pinks and yellows, sporting ludicrous hats ‘booty-danced’ in front of men boasting morning suits and top hats.

And in truth I thought the station staff could have made more of an effort to embrace this event – an organist would have been a nice touch and a vicar too.

But there you go; the pomp and finery got circled on all sides by regulation uniforms and only the flowers at M&S seemed fittingly manicured.

But it did cause me to recall my first equestrian experience.

My first ever girlfriend was horse-mad – Pony Club, plum-in-the-mouth with horsey-looking mother and chin-less pop. But I loved her.

We were 15 and she meant the world to me. Marriage was discussed, homework shared, and lambs sprung and unicorns whinnied whenever we walked hand in hand.

Except, and unknown to me, there were three in our cosy little nest – me, her and the thing in the stable.

I knew of course she loved horses but naively imagined she just thought of them as pets – like gerbils or goldfish.

Little then did I realise just how ‘deep’ the relationship can be between a blonde and something the size of a bluefin tuna.

Which meant that after three months of zero petting but heavy smooching, she turned to me the morning of my biology O-Level and punctured my femoral artery with all the finesse of an Olympian blacksmith.

“It’s just my horse comes first,” she said.

“Meaning?” I blubbed.

“You can only have one true love,” she sighed “and right now that’s Dobbin...” (‘Dobbin’ clearly wasn’t it’s real name but certain liberties have been taken to protect the innocent).

For me, it was a devastating blow.

Just minutes before I had to draw and label my own reproductive organs, with the hope of attending community college, she had turned my brain into fish chum.

It was and remains my worst ever broken heart.

I’d even have got an ‘A’ but drew everything in green.

Since then sadly, I’ve had a bit of a downer on anything equine.

I have ridden horses but on all three occasions they’ve bolted (maybe they could smell my mistrust?).

And once on Dartmoor a pony stole my sandwiches.

But in fairness, I’m still quite happy to hum the theme tune to the classic Black Beauty TV series when walking through Port Meadow and have been known to read the occasional Dick Francis novel.

So there’s hope...