No time for anything, as I’ve been working all day and running around and doing my horse and talking to interesting people and now, for once in my life, I actually have a social engagement and must put my lipstick on.
But there are days, in the cliché of middle age, when I wonder what the point of it all is. More in a musing, quizzical way than a bleak, Dostoevskian way. Sometimes I know, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I have to guess. Sometimes I think it is the look on Red the Mare’s face when she sees me coming. Sometimes I think it is love and trees. Sometimes, it is what will win the 5.30 at Chepstow. (In this case, a very well-named colt called Fast.)
Today, it was this:
This is a Para. He told me this morning, with generous, humorous honesty, about his crashing PTSD. He told me that when he arrived on Monday he was afraid of horses. Now he is doing this with Archie.
That is the point.