One ride on one thoroughbred, two walks with two dogs, some fairly blah weather, a quick bit of HorseBack work and one thousand three hundred and forty-nine words of book. (I have started yet another secret project.)
It was not really a memorable day, not one for the ages. I did not think deep thoughts or cook anything delicious or even really contemplate the trees. I got the things done that needed to be done in a rather workaday fashion and felt vaguely resentful about the gloomy old drizzle. It was the kind of day when I saw the mud, not the field.
I’m only writing this down because I’ve got the stupid idea in my head that the last year of my forties must be catalogued in full. (Why? Why? I don’t exactly think that the University of Texas is going to be ringing up for my papers; they are far too busy gazing with love at their collection of Evelyn Waugh’s letters.)
So, that was my day. It was not a good day, or a bad day. It was just – a day.
At which point the cheerleader voices in my head start shouting but you did some work, and you rode a horse, and you still have your opposable thumbs and the ability to type. And, say the slightly sterner voices: you can move around under your own steam, you are not living in a theocracy, and you have clean running water coming out of the taps. And you have a brain to think with and eyes to see and Scotland just outside your window. So what if it was a bit blah and Stanley the Manly ate half a pat of butter and the weather is rotten? There may not have been pom-poms and marching bands, but you got some things done and tomorrow you will get some more things done and not every 24 hours is going to win a prize.
Those stern voices can be quite tiring sometimes, but they are almost always right.