Insomnia. Wild, half-remembered dreams. Dazed morning head. Eggs for breakfast. Not enough coffee. A very sweet red mare. Work, work, work, work. HorseBack. Work, work, work. Should be cutting, instead put on 1280 new words. Half pleased, half furious. Need more ruthlessness. Forget lunch. Paltry attempts at admin. Followed by: idiotic and traditional admin screw-up. Close inspection of sell-by dates in the fridge. Dubious. Pause to admire handsome, comical face of Stanley the Dog. Contemplate making decision which must be made; swerve it. Time shoots past ears. Contemplate beating self up for perceived hopelessness; decide not to. WORK. High tea, on account of forgotten lunch. (Fried cods’ roe with olive oil and tomatoes. Old school.) Soft Scottish rain. Late afternoon field, green and still and secret. Two gentle, contented horses. Stop for first time since breakfast. Breathe. Smile. Remember the love.
Somewhere, in the middle of it all, this enchanting sight, of the lovely Stepfather, and his dog:
With added red mare, and sweet HorseBack horse: