Once, upon a class-less broom, the knightly class did ride.
“All Hail Mommy’s Broom!” Peculiar battle cry…archaic emotions, ancient practice, a pre-rationalists insurgency.
Boys are always close to wild headhunters: its’ the dominance thing (who’s the toughest is the great question), mythical conquests and lost causes. Adventures for the terribly cute. Before riding in pursuit of dragons, demons, and invented enemies the boy must have a horse, a battle charger fully weaponized. As it is, an up-ended broom not a cavalry stallion carries (and teaches) the boy, and all the adventures imaginable.
Brooms are probably as old as dwelling caves (and mommies, cleaning up the mess). Equestrian sculpture, the savagery made aesthetic, came much later. Acclaiming in town squares the skills of warfare, even if no army still buys fodder for horses.
The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture hosts a lecture by the head of the ancients, in part to reopen the sores from battles where innocence was lost; placed before you (metaphorically speaking of course), in order to heal.
There is always such a mess after such a battle. Bemedaled and laurel crowned prestige comes later in the retelling and artful showing; bronze idealism substituting for truth.
But a broom is still useful…for cleaning up the mess from the terribly cruel.
“All Hail Mommy’s Broom!”