Work, work, work, work. It starts off feeling like a mountain to climb. Or mud to wade through. Or something very, very hard. Then I get the thrilling hint of possibility. That section works; that paragraph is true. Suddenly, I am motoring. I can see it.
So it is now almost six and I’m still bashing on, and I shall bash bash bash until ten, and there is no room for the blog. But the Dear Readers have been especially dear lately, and you must have a line or two, so you do not think I am dead in a ditch. (In my mind, you do sometimes become exactly like my mother.)
In between the writing and the editing and the squinting furiously at the screen and the tap tap tap of my manic fingers on the keyboard and the completely forgetting to have lunch, I took a moment to watch dear old Riverside Theatre at Huntingdon. He was once a mighty champ, but he lost his way last season and I hoped more than anything he might find his road home.
He started off bonny and bouncing, happy to be back, and then he made mistakes and started scribbling and scrabbling, losing that relentless rhythm which is what wins races. But his jockey, Barry Geraghty, has faith in the fella and would not give up on him. He cajoled him and pushed him and persuaded him and booted him, and almost lifted him over the last. It was a never say die ride such as you usually see from AP McCoy. (What would AP do? is my daily question now, as you know, and the thing he always does is never, ever give up.)
And suddenly, when all seemed lost, they got a little bit of luck, as the bold Champion Court found his saddle slipping and veered to the left, and dear old Riverside found his mojo again and shot through the gap and won by a neck.
It was not the prettiest run you ever saw, but it was a race in a hundred, and I shouted my head off, my heart lifting like a helium balloon. I love comebacks, even when they are messy as hell.
And the only other news, as I turn back to my deadline, and my acres and acres of prose, is that this person gave me the most glorious, dancing, lilting ride today, so that I shouted out loud into the clean Scottish air, with gratitude and love:
She may be furry and muddy and scruffy, but in my mind she is as gleaming and shining as Riverside Theatre and all her other cousins, racing out on the springing green turf, champions all.