It’s been a bit of a complicated week, for about twenty-seven reasons. This is why the blog has been spotty, for which I apologise. I always feel there is an unspoken compact between the Dear Readers and me: you give me your time, I should at least have the decency to give you some regular prose. I have absolutely no idea where this imperative comes from. What on earth can it matter, after all? It’s such an odd medium, and I still have no idea how it works, but I like the discipline of daily bulletins, and I like the notion of a metronomic regularity.
As my head whirls and my heart beats, the ship is steadied by the glorious presence of Test Match Special. Those known voices, those blithe jokes, that pure love of a most English game cheer me like almost nothing else. Nothing can be that bad when Blowers is telling stories about rogue seagulls and calling muscular Australians ‘my dear old thing’.
The red mare has also been at her crest and peak of sweetness, cleverness and dearness. Horses pick up on jangled emotions, but as I get more fraught, she gets more calm. I’m supposed to be the one who reassures her, who keeps her safe, who soothes her frets. This week, it is as if she decided to step up and take it on her sturdy, sloping shoulders to be the still small voice of calm. Here, she says, generously, have a delightful, composed canter, just to restore your faith. Look, she says, I can do it WITH NO REINS. Come on, she says, you can’t go bonkers when I may offer you the poised self-carriage of a dowager duchess.
I sometimes think that she holds my sanity in her dear, dancing hooves.
Back to normality next week. That is my plan. In the meantime, here are some soothing pictures: