I knew my Dad wasn't the most normal of men when he gave me a robot horse for christmas. He said it was called Tinfoil, which was probably a joke, but I didn't get it and the name stuck.

At first he seemed pretty rubbish, mainly because I couldn't take him outside when it was wet or snowing, and what kind of Cowgirl couldn't go out in bad weather?

But then the summer came, and I realised just how brilliant Tinfoil was.

The best thing about him was that, provided you remembered to charge him overnight, he didn't need feeding or to rest or anything silly. So I could ride him for hours, it felt so good to gallop past all the bmx and skateboard kids and watch them try to keep up. As long as it wasn't raining, I didn't have to go to school, do my homework, or visit relatives, I was as free as the wind.

Tinfoil was a good friend, well, he couldn't speak or anything, but at least he didn't throw rocks at me like the other children.

When I got a bit older he became ideal for cruising, looking for boys, trust me it's not hard to catch a guys eye when you're mounted on a rusty horse that makes a clanging noise with each step. Then, at a teenage level at least, the rest was pure chemistry (or at least low cut tops and hot pants).

Then of course came the day Tinfoil died. I wasn't that bothered at first, I sold him for scrap and used the money as a down payment on my first car. But after a few weeks I began to miss Tinfoil, granted he couldn't speak, and as methods of transport went he was about as speedy as a Stannah Stairlift by the end, but I missed him.

In my car I didn't feel free, it was mired by traffic lights, and caught in traffic jams. It couldn't rear on it's hind legs and play a tinny neigh that frightened cats. People didn't stare at the car.

So I dug out Tinfoil's processor, the one part I had kept, and ordered him a brand spanking new body. This time he was faster, and sleeker, with rockets, was waterproof to a degree, and best of all he could speak. After much contemplation I selected the Brian Blessed voice, which I think most suitably matched his somewhat haphazard personality.

And, with many a load roar and cry of 'Gordon's Alive'� we rode off into the sunset.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...