Worked my arse off today. Work work, HorseBack work, red mare work. I smash into the wall at the end of a long week and bounce back off it, seeing cartoon stars. I’ve done an unaccustomed amount of talking, which always leaves me running on empty. (As I get older, I slide further along the introversion spectrum. I can be garrulous, but afterwards I need to go and sit very, very still in a quiet room.) I did some emotional heavy lifting. I even did some admin, which left me breathless.
Something always gets lost, when I am galloping around like this. This week, it has been the world. I catch snatches of the news, but cannot piece together the fragments and make out what is going on. Did Boris Johnson say something odd? Was there a bad set of educational results? Is Donald Trump doing something bonkers? (I think my money is safe on that one. That’s like backing an odds-on favourite in a three horse race.) Was there a thing about the grand judges, making their judgements? Will the Brexit be hard or soft or up or down or round the houses?
Nope. No idea.
In my tiny world, which is very close and very real, people have been intensely kind and the horses have been intensely sweet and the dogs have been intensely funny. At my desk, I stare at words and edit words and try to find better words and ruthlessly kill extraneous words. In the kitchen, I ponder ways to break out of my cooking rut. In the field, I contemplate rugging decisions and put out the good hay.
I used to want a big world. Now I rather love that I inhabit a small one. Perhaps it will expand again, as the years roll on. For now, it is absolutely ordinary, very little, and entirely mine. It means something to me. It makes me feel as if I mean something to it. And, on a grey Friday with the gloaming about to fall, I can’t ask more than that.