The day, as days sometimes do, gallops away from me like a recalcitrant pony. It is composed of:
Walk with The Sister.
One annoying decision. Not sure if it is the right one.
Plans for a perfect palace of a field shelter, to keep the equines warm when the winter blizzards come.
Useful work. (I am currently doing three kinds of work. Speculative, professional, and useful. It is the useful work, for HorseBack, which currently gives me most satisfaction. Please do not tell my agent this.)
The cooking of beef, for strength.
Spending of time with good and funny and kind and interesting people who do something excellent in the world. This always soothes my spirit.
Paying of bills.
A faint but persistent feeling of disorganisation.
One radically unsuccessful bet. But there was a nice double yesterday, so all is not lost. Mr William Hill still rues the day.
A yearning for my beautiful old Pigeon. Every day is a yearny day; it comes and goes, like the weather. I am learning to roll with it. I wish I did not have to learn, but I must.
This very perfunctory blog. I have angst when I give you too many words; I have angst when I give you too few. This is an occupational hazard for all writers, except, possibly, Martin Amis, who appears never to suffer from word angst. How lovely that must be.
Pigeon, from the archive: