I’ve been banging on a bit about love, lately. Oh, look, here is the light, here is the beating human heart, here is the good stuff. Hello sky, hello flowers, hello trees. The whole dippy nine yards.
Of course, it is all true. The Horse Talker told me this morning that her nine-year-old boy actually said to her the other day: ‘Mum, all you need is love.’ I don’t think he knew he was quoting The Beatles. He was having an out of the mouths of babes moment of pure wisdom.
It damn well is true. Love and trees; love and trees.
But today, I must admit, I’m not feeling it. I am grumpy and cranky and shivery and cross. I’m fed up with the stupid snow. Oh, I know it looks ravishing. I know that the branches of the trees look as if they are delicate ice sculptures, and there is the glorious sight of Stanley the Dog leaping through the whiteness, and the world feels as still as if someone stopped it.
I know that it provides me with an excess of delightful photo opportunities. I get a great kick of putting up scenic snaps on my Facebook page, and watching when people hit the Like button. It’s a tiny daily fillip. There is also the slight drama to it all, as we count the inches and discuss the crashing temperatures.
But oh, oh, oh after four days of the nonsense I am as grumbly as Victor Meldrew. I’m like that old man who yells Get off my lawn. I’m not accessing my inner love and trees, but tapped straight into my inner curmudgeon, who just WANTS IT TO STOP.
I know I’m always on about counting my blessings. Even now, as I type this, I think of the fortune of having a warm house and fingers to type. In my head, where the strict rationalist and the spit spot no nonsense voices reside, I am not allowed to complain. Not when I have All This. I’m not having to drive to the office through weather-clogged roads, or be out in sub-zero fixing power lines. I just have to give the horses their hay and write a bit of book and make some chicken soup.
Still: GRUMPY GRUMPY GRUMPY. Sorry, can’t help it, can’t fake it, can’t put a good face on it.
The one slight bright spot is that the jumps are back after a week away, and there is actual green turf at Ayr, and I have a stupidly big punt on a short-priced favourite, which I rarely do. The kind fella obliges, and at least I have a little shout and win some cash. But then I grow mournful again, because there, on the screen in front of me is green turf. I have sudden, acute verdant envy. I want to see grass again.
Come along, says the adult voice. It’s just a bit of weather. Besides, white is a lovely colour.
Bugger that, says the child voice. And then it throws all its toys out of its pram.
Today’s sodding pictures:
No prizes for guessing what they are of.
Bored yet? HA HA HA; don’t care. I’m going to put you through yet more idiot snow:
And yet buggery MORE:
Paddock this morning:
Must admit, even though I am in a filthy temper, these little breakfast faces did make me smile. Myfanwy is hiding behind Red. You can just see her little ears:
Snow dog. Yada, yada, yada:
You can just see the hill:
I know I showed you a version of this yesterday, and I know it’s a bit blurry, but it is the one thing that does break through the grumpiness. It’s the look on Red’s face:
Sorry about venting. Shall be all bluebells and butterflies again tomorrow.