Good day; bad day. Good news; bad news. Equine sweetness, ravishing Scottish sun, comedy from Stan the Man, 1069 words of book. Faint frets about all the things I faintly fret about. My mother is not as well as I would like, and I wish I could magic her better. Idiotic bet on what I thought was a Sir Michael Stoute sure thing. The great racing knight would surely not send a horse all the way to Hamilton unless it was nailed on? He lost in a photograph and I felt absurdly stupid. A bit of cooking, a bit of reading; sudden, streaming deadline panic. Where do the days go? I have no longer any temporal understanding at all. The hours swish by my nose with derisive speed; they do not care that I never have enough of them. I feel the twang and stretch of my brain as I attempt to comprehend and order all the things I must do.
Write this, in haste. Think, as always: it will be better tomorrow.
Happy horses in the glorious evening light:
The hill in full panorama:
And standing alone, in all her majesty: