Counting.

Words of book: 3309.

Which, as all you professionals will know, is a stupid amount, and not necessarily that productive. Graham Greene used to do a strict five hundred. But, as may have become clear by now, I am no Graham Greene, nor was meant to be. And I am running downhill to the finish now, so I just keep typing, typing, typing, until my head falls off.

Glorious, brilliant, enchanting, adorable mares: 1.

She gave me the sweetest ride I ever had this morning, in the amber October sunshine. She was so relaxed and tractable that at one point I did trotting with LOOK MA NO HANDS. My ex-racehorse, my ex-polo pony, my thoroughbred chestnut mare, steered only by my legs and body, kept steady, gentle time, out in the open spaces, to the sound of my voice. If that is not cleverness, I don’t know what is.

Nice walkers, slightly startled by the sight of a delirious middle-aged female, singing ‘Trot trot trot trot trot’, and then bursting into crazed laughter: 3.

State of exhaustion: a Spinal Tap 11.