Rage.

I am in a rage today. I have no idea why. There is something about which I am furious and I have no idea what it is. The red mist is swirling about me. My whole body is tense and livid.

I write here sometimes about moods. I like to think I don’t really do moods. I like to think that I feel emotions in their appropriate places. If something sad happens, I feel sad. If something good happens, I feel happy. I am a fairly simple soul. Quite rarely, but quite acutely, I sometimes wake up in a fog of paralysed gloom, for no reason at all. I can’t fight my way through it. The only thing to do is to sit and suffer until it passes. If I were a better psychologist and had paid more attention to my Jung, I expect I should be able to get to the bottom of these mysteries, but I can’t.

Today, it is fury. It’s been brewing for a while, leaking out about the edges. I am lacerating myself, castigating myself for not coming up to scratch. It is not specific, just a general sense of being useless and pointless and feckless. I am ashamed to say that I shouted at the dog. (Luckily, he is a lurcher, so he just gives me his lurcher look, and carries on with his business.) I even had a moment of irritation with the red mare today, and had to walk quickly away from the field before I did something I would regret. She is the love and light of my life. How can I feel cross with her?

It is a beautiful sunny day, and I have written 1503 pretty good words. I have all my arms and legs. I live surround by ancient blue hills. I do not have to walk ten miles each morning just to get water. My good fortune is ridiculous. How can I feel anger in the midst of such bounty? I have done all my work and am going to give myself the luxury of watching the July Meeting at Newmarket, where some of my favourite horses in the world are gathered. I shall be able to watch soaring beauty on that storied green turf. I should be in a maze of joy.

Instead I want to kick things and throw things and shout fuck fuck fuck fuck at the top of my voice.

I suppose this is called: being human. I once wrote that the mark of being a grown-up is the ability to sit with uncomfortable feelings. As I say, over and over again, every day can’t be Doris Day. This is more Doris Karloff.

Ah well. Deep breath and count to ten. If dear Arab Spring can fulfil his promise and win the 2.40 then all manner of things will be well. If not, then I don’t know what will happen.

 

Just time for one picture, before the racing starts. Here is the duchess, shaking off those damn horseflies which are out to get her. I feel pretty much like she looks: