The ship sails on

A friend sends me a text. Her father died, suddenly, last Thursday. She is not only someone I like very much, but someone I admire. She is doing good things in the world. I think of the battening down of the hatches she will have to do as the storm of sorrow hits, and grieve for her.

At least, I think, this is in my wheelhouse. I can write to her. This is something I know something about. I have words for this. I know that nothing can comfort at such a time; when people use that word, I think they fall into a category error. They are, hopefully, humanly, putting loss into the same box as the things in life which can be fixed. It cannot be fixed. It is a vast, rough thing, that goes right down into the very depths of the spirit, and can only be ridden out. (The question, I suddenly thought this morning, is not how do I make myself feel better; the question is – can I take it?) The kind words of condolence do not comfort, but they do touch the broken heart, and that is important in itself.

I sat down to write, and there was nothing. Stilted, paltry sentences fell lifeless onto the page. I stared in astonishment. But I know this, I thought; this is my damn special subject. I could win Mastermind on this.

Still nothing.

I thought: I know what this good woman is going through, I must have the precise right thing to say. Then I realised I don’t know what she is going through at all. I have an inkling, because I lost my own father, but each bereavement is unique; there is nothing else like it. There are some coloured areas on the Venn diagram of sorrow, but each person must feel it in a different way. And the thing is so vast that however much I think I know it, my words are still tiny things in a howling gale.

In the end, I wrote what practically everyone writes. I am sending you love, you are in my thoughts, your father must have been so proud of you, my heart aches for you. It turns out that all my expertise is not quite as shiny and comprehensive as I had thought.

The comfort thing is interesting. Matthew Parris was on the Today programme this morning, talking of grief. He was quite indignant and grumpy, in a rather wonderful way, about the idea that one should get over it, that there should be healing, that loss is treated like some kind of mental sickness which may be cured.

‘You don’t get over it,’ he almost shouted at Justin Webb.

He is right. I remember being quite shocked, months after losing my father, when I thought I was rocking back to some kind of normality, to find that the Railway Children tears could still hurl me to the ground. What was that about? Was time not supposed to heal?

I worked out that it is not healing so much, as room for other things. At the beginning, the whole world shrinks to the size of the loss. Words on the radio are meaningless, food has no savour, ordinary people going about their ordinary business seem alien, even callous. (How can you be laughing when MY FATHER IS DEAD?)

Usual daily things like tidying the kitchen or washing the hair seem insurmountable. I am currently in the mad hair phase. Luckily, I discovered that vanity flees, in the face of sorrow, so at least I do not have to mind about my piggy little eyes and my whey face and my crazy-woman barnet.

What happens, or rather, what happened to me, is that I had to learn where to put the sadness, to fold it into a safe place in my heart, where it could still be felt, but would not overwhelm. That is the slow process that time allows. The problem with the instinct to comfort is that it can cramp this; it can put pressure on you to get on with it. The people who love and care for one do not like to see one in pain; of course they want to wave magic wands and make it all go away. But what I really need is the space, the permission to feel like hell for a while, until I can get things back in their proper order.

Parris says you damn well should feel the hole; that it is meet and right so to do. I remember thinking something very much the same last year. I remember suddenly thinking: how horrible it would be if there were no tears.

I miss my old girl so much that there are moments I can hardly breathe. I see little flashes of her everywhere. I remember all her sweetnesses, her kindnesses, her generosities. I remember the feel of her and the sound of her and the scent of her. She was a glorious creature, a rare spirit, and she leaves a gap behind that shall never be filled.

So, I asked myself this morning the serious question: can I take it? The answer, of course, is yes. I have to work out the balance. I have to allow the pain, which is immense, but I am aware that I must not fall into the pit of self-pity, and self-indulgence.

I think: go back to the small things. Each day, find something which is good, as well as feeling what is bad. So I made chicken soup, and rearranged the white roses sent to me by the dear old friend in California. I thought of The Playwright, who called yesterday from Manhattan and showed me his hotel room on the Skype, and made me laugh five whole times. I thought of the family. I thought of the astonishing kindness of the Dear Readers, which daily makes me smile. I thought of my mare and my funny little pony. I thought of all the lovely horses I shall watch this winter, as the National Hunt season swings into action.

These are not comforts; that is the wrong word. But they are goods which still exist, to put beside the bad. They are the small, hopeful winds which shall keep this ship sailing.

 

Today’s pictures:

It was a gloomy, murky day, but the hills and trees still carried a mournful beauty:

The white roses:

There is a lovely simplicity to equine breakfast time. They are all so happy and contented:

Pigeon, from the archive:

 

It’s funny. After the Duchess died, I put some pictures of her up and then stopped. Could not bear it. Now, I can’t conceive this blog without the Pigeon on it. I think perhaps she shall stay here forever.

The Hill:

America goes to vote today. Normally, this would be full festival political geekery day for me. As it is, I just hope that President Obama is re-elected. I think he is a good man doing his best in a difficult season.

I never did do my promised post on Mitt Romney. My central question was this. Everyone who knows him personally says he is a good family man, who brought up fine sons, who is faithful and true to his wife, and kind and thoughtful to his friends. But on the campaign trail, he has lied and lied and lied. These are not just the usual political evasions, the small economies with the truth that almost all operatives indulge. They are proper lies.

His campaign even seemed to acknowledge this when they said they would not allow their agenda to be dictated by fact-checkers, as if people who check facts are dark and dangerous.

And then there was his searing disdain for the 47%.

I know complexity is at the heart of the human condition, but I found it hard to reconcile these two Mitt Romneys. I also found it impossible to understand how someone who could say so many provably untrue things could be taken seriously as a candidate by such a great nation.

President Obama may not be perfect, and has failed in some areas, but crucially, I think the private and the public man are the same. Unlike his opponent, he really does believe in Americans. I think it would be rather a lovely thing if they repaid the compliment.

 

PS. As I re-read this, looking for howlers, I realise that my brain has gone into the kind of fugue state which means I have no editing capacity. I have no idea if this makes any sense at all, or if the grammar is correct, or if the thing is littered with errors. Thank you for bearing with me. Oh, and I am aware it is all a little dark at the moment. Do not fear. The light shall come again. There shall, in the not too distant future, once again be jokes. I am British, after all. We are not allowed to be serious for too long. It is written in our DNA.

Return. Home and horses and politics and swallows.

The first thing, of course of course, after the second 250-mile leg of journey, was to dash up to the mare. She does such a funny thing when I return from trips. She pretends she is very, very grumpy indeed. She turns her back and swishes her tail and rolls her eyes, as if to say: what kind of time do you call this? I josh her out of it. You silly old donkey, I say. She throws her head about as if to indicate that this is not a proper form of address for a granddaughter of Nijinsky.

After about five minutes of this, she gives in, and admits that she is actually very pleased to see me indeed. She ducks her head at me, so I can scratch the sweet spots by her ears; her eyelids flicker, her lower lip wibbles, she breathes a long, loud, rattling sigh.

By the end, we are all in harmony again. I’m ashamed to say I actually sniff her. (I really am glad there is no one about. I’m not sure what the farmer would say if he saw me sniffing my horse.) The smell is one of the things I love most about her. It’s a scent of earth and air and healthy horse, and some sweet smell all her own. I’ve been with polo ponies all week, and they are all beautiful and enchanting and have great thoroughbred bloodlines, but none of them smells as good.

That was the weekend. Now I am back at work, into my stern autumn regime. Term has started. There was no time this morning for mooching about in the field, but a quick, serious ride. After the stop-start of the wet summer, I am banking on a good September, so the mare and I can both get match fit. We do neck-reining and transitions. She makes an initial protest after her ten days’ of loafing, and then settles to her work. I feel ridiculously, stupidly pleased.

It was interesting being with the Cousin and the Old Fella during the season. Usually, my trips to the south are in the winter, when all the horses are laid off, and the Old Fella goes to South America to work. Now, it is time of matches and practise.

There must be about forty polo ponies, almost all of them at their physical peak. They are worked twice a day; exercise in the very early morning, around seven, and then schooling and stick-and-balling in the afternoon. Some of them are old playing veterans; some are young stock, just learning their trade. They are all kept out, in their most natural state, in two big herds. I think not all polo yards do this, but the Old Fella believes that horses should be horses, and they are at their happiest when getting filthy out in the open air. They can roll and canter around and the young ones have play fights. The herd dynamic is evident, in all its ancient glory: the boss mare, the strict pecking order.

Back home, I think, as I give Red her special head massage, with citronella balm to keep off the flies, that she has got a whole new bargain. She used to run with a huge pack, with all the untrammelled horsiness that involves. Now she just has one small Welsh pony to boss about, but she gets the devoted and undivided attention of one human. She loses the wild herd; she gains the focused love.

In a big professional yard, like the one she lived in, she would have been very well treated. His horses all adore the Old Fella. But he has a job to do; he is on the go literally from dawn to dusk. (I always admire this kind of hard, physical, unrelenting work, and the people who do it.) There is no time for him to stand with one horse, for an hour at a time, as I do, just rubbing and scratching and chatting.

Red seems pretty happy with her bargain. When I am grooming her, she turns her head right round, and presents her forehead for affection. In the minutes after I returned, she rested on my shoulder, and went to sleep. I could feel her dropping and relaxing, as if to say: oh yes, my person is back.

I had a lovely time in the south. The extended family gives me joy like almost nothing else. I got to ride some prime equine athletes. (I even bought special new boots for the occasion. If the Old Fella was going to let me up on his polo stars, I had to be exceptionally well shod.) But as I look out over the grass and old stone walls and the beech trees, as I hear the lilting murmur of the birds and the slow doze of the Pigeon as she rests beside me, I think: there really is no place like home.

 

*****************************************************************************

I always like it, in newspaper or periodical articles, when they do a little postscript about things to look out for this week. Or some kind of Coming Soon.

Here are my things for the week:

The swallows, amazingly, are still here. I thought they would be gone by now. They are mustering like mad, and flying like gangbusters, getting their muscles up for the long flight to Africa. I rather dread the day when the air will no longer vibrate with the whirring of their brilliant wings, but at the same time it is one of the marking of the seasons that I love.

The political season swings back into action. I think: come on, government, plan for growth, plan for growth. I’d love to see Dear old Blighty back on her feet again. Because of my repudiation of tribalism, I don’t really care any more if a policy is Left or Right.  I mind if it is good or bad. I want the politicians of all stripes to do well, so the country can lift its head and shake off its malaise. We have been catching glimpses of glory again during these Olympics and Paralympics; it would be lovely to carry that sense that anything is possible into daily economic and political life.

My inner geek stretches itself and raises its head as the American election campaign gets into gear. I give you due warning: I shall have a very great deal to say about Mitt Romney. He is one of the most unfathomable and contradictory men I have ever observed in public life. It’s not just that the election fascinates me, it’s that I think he is one of the most complex individuals I have seen on the international stage. I’m going to work him out if it kills me.

 

Today’s pictures:

The road home. When I veer off the main highway for the last leg over the hills to my house, this is what I see:

Some pictures from the south:

Smallest cousin, with her faithful shadow, The Pigeon:

And Pigeon, on her own basking:

Godson, on his own lovely mare:

Old Fella, Godson, and middle cousin, also known as The Dancing Queen, at full tilt:

No time to take pictures here yet; have been too busy getting organised. Here is Red, from the day before I left:

In which it turns out I owe Mitt Romney a debt of gratitude

An absolutely massive working day. After weeks of feeling like I was wading through mud, I finally got the pitch and no fewer than two sample chapters finished and sent off to the agent. (The Playwright rang just after lunch to inspire me, and no one inspires quite like he can.)

There was also a wild ride in the sunshine and a twenty-minute conversation with The Farmer, who wanted to know all about the mare. We swapped notes on cows and horses and came away happy as grigs. Or at least, I was deliriously happy. He was smiling politely but you never know. It could have been massive equine overload shock. (He did drive away rather quickly in his navy blue Landrover before I could start telling him about the Darley Arabian.)

The good part of all this is that I have had a proper and fulfilling day. I even managed to take a very quick glance at the 2.55 at Ascot. (My fancy, Dansili Duel, finished an honourable third. I wish my father had taught me the trick of each-way betting, but he never did. It was all on the nose with him.) The bad part is that my huge Olympic blog plan is completely scuppered because my fingers are now too gnarled to type and my brain is too fogged to think.

I will say one thing though, which is a big, big thank you to Mitt Romney. No one else could have managed to unite the country so completely with a few disobliging sentences. All the PR gurus and advertising mavens and feelgood experts must be chewing their arms off with rage, since no campaign they could have devised would have done the job more efficiently.

Mr Romney, I suspect, does not understand quite a lot of things. The one thing he really does not comprehend is that we Britons are the only ones who are allowed to bitch and grouse and grumble about our own shortcomings. The British have a slightly odd habit of taking a twisted pride in thinking of themselves as a little bit crap. Britons moan and groan about our football team crashing out of tournament after tournament; we know we no longer rule the waves; we understand very well that the tube and the NHS are a bit of a shambles. Mr Romney clearly has no time for the shambolic; he dreams of the coming American century, the shining city on the hill. We know our city will always be a little dusty.

But just because Ordinary Decent Britons take an almost perverse pride in the crapness of everything, adore to complain, and indulge in heavy irony rather than Pollyanna-ish sanguinity, it does not mean that anyone may come in from the outside and tell us how feckless and pointless and hopeless we are. That is our job.

(It is very, very rare that I use the Universal We. I dare to use it here, even though it’s a bit naughty; obviously not every last British person will subscribe to the shambolic sentiment.)

Within hours of Romney talking of the British public’s lack of enthusiasm for the games, calling poor old Ed Miliband ‘Mr Leader’, as if he were a character in Star Trek, and saying he had just looked out of the ‘backside of Number Ten Downing Street’, seemingly unaware that backside means arse in British English, the hashtag #romneyshambles was trending on Twitter. Outside, the great British public were crowding the streets, hanging from lampposts as the Olympic torch went by, roaring with approval in Hyde Park as Boris Johnson said ‘There’s this chap called Mitt Romney who wants to know if we’re ready. Are we ready?’ I thought: I think we are ready.

Good old Mitt, with his extraordinary lack of grace and shocking manners, has added vastly to the gaiety of nations, and to this one in particular. We may criticise ourselves as if grumbling were itself an Olympic sport, but when an outsider doubts us, we rise up like tigers. As Churchill said: we will defend our island. The Romneyshambles jokes came thick and fast, and everyone seemed to decide dear old Blighty might be able to put on a party after all.

I suddenly realised that, for all the fumbles and missteps (I do think that getting a hamburger chain to sponsor a sporting event is quite odd), it is damn well the greatest show on earth and this crumbling old island nation might just do it proud.

Watching the happy crowds, I felt a bit teary and oddly patriotic. Thanks to Mitt Romney, I became fired with Olympic zeal and Corinthian spirit. Go, Team GB, I thought. We may not be the best in the world, we may be a bit bashed and battered, but we do have our moments.

 

Just time for my own little Team GB:

And our hill: