In which I have absolutely no idea what I am talking about.

I had something absolutely dazzling to tell you today. It was all about life and the small things and what really matters. I must must must write that for the Dear Readers, I thought, practically falling over at my own cleverness. They will be so pleased, I thought.

Now, I have absolutely no idea what it was. Nothing. Not even a glimmer or a glance or a scratch in the back of the mind. Not a hint or a clue.

Bugger, I think. Sometimes flakiness really can go too far.

The day was raw and drab, but I did horse work and work work and HorseBack work. Some of the things that have been worrying me seemed less worrying. I’m never quite sure how this happens but it is always a most welcome delight. I tell myself sternly not to waste time and energy on worrying about things I cannot change, or things that have not yet happened, or things that float around in the universe in a random manner that is beyond my control. Sometimes I am able to take my own advice, and sometimes I am not.

At least I have ticked off everything on my To Do List. That is a red-letter event. Well, everything except one. At the bottom, in a furious scrawl, it says: TIDY FRIDGE. It’s nearly four and I’ve got to go and give the mares their tea. I would rather chew my own arm off than tidy the fridge. I’m going to take my chances. The housekeeping police may well break down the door and cart me away. There is definitely something in the back of the fridge which has taken on a life of its own and may be spawning cultures even as I write. But sod it, I’m not feeling butch enough for Marigolds and spit spot. I sometimes wish I were the kind of person who simply had a tidy fridge, but one must work within one’s limitations. I can write a sentence and wear a hat and get a red mare to do smooth walk to trot transitions from voice and that is going to have to be enough.