As always, the days gallop away from me like a recalcitrant brumby. How do people keep control of the hours? Sometimes I swear I can actually hear the whoosh of time as it flies past my ear.
No lovely little bulletins on the wing, after all that. No swift aperçus, or witty asides.
I could, I suppose, tell you some of my Cheltenham thinking, that I woke this morning convinced that a treble including My Tent or Yours, Pont Alexandre, and Sprinter Sacre was the banker bet of the festival. Except I shall have changed my mind about that by tomorrow, if precedent is anything to go by. (I was slightly floored by meeting a gent today who backed My Tent or Yours at 20-1 ante-post, whilst the best price I can find is now 6-4.)
Instead, here is an entirely random collection of pictures. I was going through the archive for my HorseBack work, and I found this little collection, of sunnier days, before the horses grew their winter fur, when there still was The Pigeon, in the world. The world really is a poorer place without her in it. It still has many joys, and things to look forward to; I still wake at dawn counting off the days till Cheltenham like a child looking forward to Christmas. There is still a great deal of loving and being loved and good jokes and good food and good friendship. But even now, there is a gap, where the dear old Pidge once was.
Not at all sure how I got onto that. Was really just going to say Here are some pictures for you. Anyway, here are some pictures for you: