1637 words of book written. Twenty pages edited.
Hats in the air work with the red mare. Important trailer practice. She self-loaded. (She is so clever that I need new words for clever.) Then: a canter out in the hayfields of perfect lightness and containment, as if she were channelling her inner dressage diva. And to finish: a sweet slow ride with her little Paint friend. My heart filled to overflowing.
Try not to think of the awful shoutiness of last night’s debate on Scottish independence. You know that I have a strict rule on this blog about ad hominem. But the tutting old great-aunt in me said: that Mr Salmond really should learn some manners. (Am clearly in a minority in this, since everyone else said he won, hands down. Cross aunt says: by yelling?)
HorseBack UK work. Quite pleased with the pictures from Blair.
A dream of more time. Always, always, more time.
But Stanley the Dog is sweet and funny and makes my mother smile at breakfast, which is always a shining and good thing.
Wonder where to buy jump-leads.
Think of books I have to read and things I must look up.
Faint sense of relief that it is very average racing today, so I do not need to have a bet. The memory of dear Beacon Lady from yesterday sustains me.
Feel faintly guilty that this blog is written in cheap and intermittent telegraphese. Have I no deep thoughts for you?
Must make soup.
Sometimes I think the story of my life is: must make soup.
Suppose it could be a worse story.
No time for the camera today, so here is a quick blue hill and a beautiful red girl: