September 8: A Conservative pre-conference party hosted by Lord Saatchi. No, I don??t know what I??m doing here either, but this is where my mad and stupid idea begins, quite out of the blue. I??m introduced to a girl called Rachel Whetstone, who has since become Michael Howard??s chief of staff. I overhear her asking someone whether he??ll be coming hunting again.

??Hunting??? I say. ??Oh wow! I??m so jealous. I??ve always wanted to go hunting.??

??Why don??t you come too??? says Rachel.

??But I can??t jump,?? I say. I ought to come clean and admit that I can barely ride either. I haven??t been on a horse in 15 years and even when I last had lessons I was never much cop.

That evening I mention the idea to Tiffany, my wife. ??But you can??t ride,?? she says. The more I try to argue the case, the crosser she gets. She knows a stupid midlife crisis idea when she hears one.

September 12: I have e-mailed Rachel to say ??Yes??. To make extra double-sure that I don??t back out, I have started telling as many people as possible. The last time I did this was before I went cage diving with great white sharks, so that when the crunch came I was much more afraid of being thought a wuss than I was of being eaten.

September 18: Dulwich stables. My first ride in 15 years. Walk, rising trot, rising trot on the diagonal, canter; it all comes back to me. Hurrah! That must mean I am a natural. This hunting lark is going to be a doddle.

October 12: Brackley, Northamptonshire. My wife??s cousin John Brisby QC, a mad keen hunter with the Grafton, takes me out for a training session on his 17½-hand grey ?? roughly the size of a brontosaurus ?? unreassuringly called Mischief. Very soon I remember why I gave up riding: because horses are terrifying.

The last person John took out hunting fell off and broke his collarbone. I ask him which horse he was riding. ??Mischief,?? says John, with a laugh. They??re like that, hunting people.

When Mischief hears John??s horse snorting behind, he goes straight into a gallop. The bastard horse thinks he??s out hunting. Help! I??m being thrown from side to side and no matter how hard I pull on the reins it??s not enough. I hate this. I??m petrified and I swear I??m never going to do it again.

??How was that??? asks John when I??ve finally managed to pull Mischief up. ??Um. A bit shaky for a while,?? I say. But I don??t want to lose face, so I carry on.

On the final uphill straight of the day I have this extraordinary, epiphanic moment. Mischief wants to go fast and I want to go fast; I??m squeezing him forward and he??s responding and I love him for it. So maybe I do like riding after all.

October 29: Bodmin Moor. Depression and despair. Out for another hack, this time with the hatchet-faced woman who runs the stables. My horse isn??t as obedient as the last one. He barges into the back of hers and when we canter, he tramples on the edge of a farmer??s cornfield. The woman announces that I am a danger to myself and other riders and she won??t canter with me again. We return sulkily home.