The snow comes, silently, in the night. It is the right kind of snow, pretty and crisp and white, and the sun shines on it and makes it glitter.
I bless the new rug technology, as I so often do. The little herd is toasty and warm, huddled up to the ears in protective clothing. I do some gentle work with them, congratulate the pony wildly for high cleverness (through the scary yellow barrels, in a figure of eight, at liberty), give them extra rations of hay.
I stand for a bit, with Autumn and Red, who are just hanging out together like a couple of girlfriends, chewing the fat. Each offers me her head in turn, for scratches in the sweet spots. Their dear faces turn back and forth like metronomes. Occasionally, they touch noses, with gentle affection. It’s a particularly sweet thing with the filly, who is only three and has spent her life in a big herd. She’s not yet entirely convinced of the need for human endearments, unlike Red, who is goofy for love.
I read a bit of the internet. There are interesting articles from Nick Cohen, on gay marriage and prejudice, and more on the Julie Burchill row.
I do work.
I eat a cheese sandwich. Sometimes all I want in the world is a cheese sandwich. And not fancy cheese either, just the good old bog standard stuff I get in the Co-op. I’m such a cheap date.
I attempt to get my computer in some kind of order. This never works, because I always end up thinking that I shall just tidy up the photograph archive, and then spend hours gazing at adorable pictures of the animals.
I encounter MICE in the feed shed. They have somehow got themselves deep into one of the feed bins, and are jumping about doing crazed mouse acrobatics. I squeak, girlishly. Once they are dealt with, I turn to the Horse Talker. ‘Let us never speak of this again,’ I say. ‘The Pankhursts would not be impressed.’ We then discuss the merits of a feral cat. The problem is that they are only little field mice, really very sweet and harmless, but we cannot have them eating the precious equine food.
I walk the dog, and throw the ball for him, and we do some sit and stay and come. Stanley hurls himself about in the snow in high delight, then bounds back into the house, collapses on his sheepskin, and falls to profound sleep.
I look at the news. There is more arctic weather forecast; there is fighting in Mali; Britons did well at the Golden Globes. The BBC news page wins my prize for oddest question of the day: ‘Why do criminals smuggle garlic?’ Why indeed?
The light fades over the white land, turning a low, humming indigo. Soon, the moon will rise, and it shall be time to think about what to have for supper. Continuing my cheap date, cheese sandwich, faintly 1970 theme, I am tempted by a bit of scampi. Scampi in a basket (no one knows why it had to be in a basket) was one of the biggest treats of my childhood. Some things don’t change.
After two days of no camera, there are rather a lot of photographs, because it was such a pretty day:
The little herd:
Myfanwy the Pony:
Autumn the Filly:
All together, waiting for breakfast:
Red the Mare, in her very, very smart and efficient new rug:
Stanley the Snow Dog:
Crazy jumping mice: