Finally, I admit blob defeat

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.