The weather turned surly again after yesterday’s dancing sunshine. The horses, however, did not care, and there was a lot of morning sweetness in the field. The dear Stepfather and I discussed the education system at breakfast, because that is the kind of thing we like to talk about. And then it was work, work, work, work with a quick break to watch the incomparable Ryan Moore win the Cheshire Oaks.
My days are in a very steady, ordinary pattern at the moment. Dogs, hill, mares, family, work. I am not doing anything remarkable. I’m like an old staying chaser: not one of the great storied stars, but a reliable handicapper, plugging on with my head down. I quite like this. I have not been known for steadiness, and I like that there is a routine and there is a lot of getting things done. My domestic life suffers a little – the house teeters on the edge of muddle and my garden runs wild. All energy goes into the work. I am going to get this secret project finished if it kills me.
I think, slightly ruefully, I used to have Deep Thoughts, for the Dear Readers. Or did I? This might be a fantasy. Quite often, I suspect, I believed I had a deep thought but by the time it got to writing the blog I had forgotten it. I have a vague memory of apologising to you for the errant deep thought, which had escaped into the wild.
Make some more jokes, say the cross voices in my head. If you can give them a meditation on the human condition, at least do a couple of gags. Do a tap dance, do some jazz hands, turn a cartwheel. But by the time the work is done, my brain turns itself off as if someone has thrown a switch. There are no cartwheels to be had.
I like the ordinary. I used to yearn always for the extraordinary. Now I find the ordinary soothing and consoling. It’s just that sometimes, when I write it down, it reads a little flat. Is that all there is? Well, yes, that is all. It’s small, and it’s mine, and it will do. These are not dazzling days, but they are decent days, and, after six months of intense grief, I’ll take decent.