Posted by Tania Kindersley.
I’m a bit half-baked at the moment. This is fatal for any kind of writing. I sit down to the blog and think: what shall I tell them today? And because of the half-baked thing, my brain flops around in a desultory manner and goes: weeeellll....
I think: I could talk about the great race that the mighty Nathaniel ran today, when he was so admirable in the narrowest of defeats, and how I love him almost more for not winning than for coming out victorious. But it is after six and I am tired and it was such a great race that I need at least twenty-seven paragraphs to do it justice, by which time my head shall have fallen off and most of you will have left the building in despair.
I think: I could write a lyrical cantering thing about the great ride the mare and I took up over the hills and far away, but you really don’t need another bloody riding story. Trot on, trot on, I think; don’t make them suffer through yet more damn horse stuff.
I think: I could attempt to say something about world affairs, or political dynamics, or even the Tour de France, a race of which I know nothing, but which is being won by a great Briton, for the first time in its history. Apparently he is a Briton with tremendous sideburns and an anarchic sense of humour, and that pleases me.
Then I think: but dammit, it’s Saturday, and no one even reads the blog on a Saturday. (I rarely look at my numbers, because that is not what this thing is about, but when I do, I notice that everyone reads during the working week. Saturday and Sunday are obviously days when you snap off your computers and put your smartphones to sleep, and sit down with War and Peace. And hurrah for that.)
And in the end, I think, ah well. Let’s just have a nice flower picture and a dopey mare picture and a Pigeon stick-face picture, because sometimes all that anyone needs is something diverting on which to rest their eyes, when the world is a bit mad and sad. And perhaps it doesn't’ matter that I’m a bit half-baked. One can’t be fully baked every day, it would be preposterous.
Normally, when I fail to write anything of any interest, I suffer crippling angst. Often, I have to drink to forget. Tonight, for some reason, I feel quite sanguine.
My throat is still hoarse from cheering that marvellous Nathaniel on. The Younger Brother arrived just in time for the race, and we both roared and jumped up and down and the Pigeon fell into a frenzy of barking, and despite it all, the magnificent fella lost by a nose.
Normally, I would feel very sad about that, but the Brother and the Pidge and I went for walk after, up the beech avenue, and talked of love and trees. And then I went up to settle Red for the night, and she was at her dearest and most funny and affectionate, mooching about and resting her head on my chest and doing her enchanting little whicker. And I thought: it’s just a lost race. And now I think: it’s just a slightly pointless blog. Everything does not have to be a shining win for it to be all right.
And now I really am going to stop, before I start writing complete hokum. Who knows? Tomorrow, I might have something utterly fascinating to say. Or, not.
Red and the pony, mooching up the field to see me, in single file:
I love this, because you can really see how velvety her coat is. Because it’s been so cold, she has not the sleek, smooth summer coat, but an adorable teddy bear velvet version, which I never tire of rubbing:
And hoping also for biscuits face: