Every day, in the family life, the hours scoot away, but in some strange, cussed way, what the children call the Blobby Blob gets written. Most of the time, I have to apologise for grammatical errors, non-sequiturs, possible idiocies, wild tangents, and general lack of coherence. But at least there are words. I think that as long as there are words, everything is all right.
Tonight, I have to admit defeat. The hours went; the fingers can hardly move to type; there are no words.
The weather was cold and glittering; the children were sweet and funny; the new gentleman is getting more and more settled. I even won huge wads of cash, as the enchanting grey Dynaste romped home to his second glorious victory over fences. He was a good hurdler, but he has taken to the big jumps as if they were the very things he was waiting for. I have rarely seen a horse have so much fun.
I was very careful not to shout, for fear of alarming the new gent. Stanley the Lurcher is not used to my intemperate racing self; I don’t want to shock him, early on. My old girls used to jump up and down and bark their heads off as I howled my fancies home, mostly up the Cheltenham hill. (When Kauto Star won one of his Gold Cups, I think it was the first, we were making such a racket that my neighbour burst in the front door, thinking that we were suffering a home invasion.) I shall have to introduce Mr S gradually to this kind of rumpus.
In other words, it was a Good Day.
No time or energy for pictures either. Just two of the dear new arrival:
He really is a glorious fellow. I love that rather whippety profile. I am trying to work out his heritage. I think there is greyhound, possibly a bit of boxer, even a touch of Lab, I am almost sure some collie, and a dash of Staffordshire. A lot of sight dog, as some of the clever Dear Readers have observed. This is a very particular thing, which needs me to develop a whole new set of skills. His sight dog heritage is already showing; he can spot a fly at twenty paces.
The Smallest Cousin has just crawled onto my lap. ‘That’s a LOT of blob,’ she says. ‘You really are doing that Blobby Blob.’
She pauses. She thinks for a moment. ‘I would like a computer,’ she says. (She is four years old, so the possibility is remote.) She says, seriously: ‘I’d like to press all those buttons.’
I think: I’d like to press all those buttons too. It would make my agent very happy.
As I finish, and scroll back to check the paltry amount of words, the Smallest Cousin says, in hollering cartoon voice: ‘Whoah! You were a big writer there.’ Out of the mouths of babes, I think. If only it were true.