Horse and book. And life lessons.

Author’s note: really don’t know what I’m writing about at the moment, so the poor Dear Readers need to put their Forgiving Hats on. Or, at least, it might help.

 

That sound you hear is the sound of hollow laughter. When I said yesterday that I was starting to feel faintly organised, the hubris angels flapped their wings and fell on the floor laughing. Today, I have piles of washing all over the floor, mud everywhere because there is obviously no time to brush it up, a car that needs an oil change (the light flashes plaintively at me, as if knowing that it will get no joy), forty-seven emails to write, a calendar which has question marks all over it as the dates I am trying to confirm prove as labyrinthine as backstage manoeuvring at a G8 summit, and a TO DO list which is longer than the Chancellor’s Autumn Statement.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

Also my shoulder hurts and I’ve only managed to edit ten pages of book and am reduced to sending pathetic pleas to the agent to push the deadline. (Who thought it would be a good idea to write two books at once?)

On the other hand, the frost is glittering in the blinding sun, and the Younger Niece came out with me this morning and did some more filming as I rode the red mare. The duchess started off as relaxed as an old cow pony, but then felt the cold snap and the open grass under her twinkly toes and the antic world around her and threw down a couple of challenges. I could feel the power building in her mighty body and thought: well, this could all go pear-shaped. But it didn’t. I concentrated and kept calm and tried to remember all the new things I have learnt and she came back to me. The adrenaline fell, and I had my sweet girl again, and we ended on the loveliest of good notes.

I had, of course, despite my daily fight against perfectionism, decided to produce a perfect ride, for the Younger Niece to record. Then I could put it on the internet and be covered in glory and everyone would be impressed and tell me what a brilliant horse I had.

The mare said: perfect, schmerfect.

She was enchanting on the ground, as if lulling me into a false sense of security, and then wilful under the saddle. I wanted to go one way, she wanted to go another. I had to use my intelligence and persuade her, going back to a most basic exercise. ‘I have to do this,’ I said, slightly breathless, to the Younger Niece, as we turned in tight circles, ‘otherwise the whole ride will be a disaster.’ So, I fixed the wanting to go home issue, and everything went calm and docile and easy, and then the little Paint started yelling and people were doing strange things in the woods, so the mare decided she was worried about that. ‘I’m changing the subject,’ I panted at the Younger Niece, as we did serpentines and worked the special left-right exercise and made figures of eight round young trees. ‘If I can get her focus back to me and control her feet, we’ll be fine.’

We were fine. But it was not perfect, it was messy. The Niece, who is amazingly wise, looked up at me, as the mare, quiet again, stood silhouetted against the dancing sun, her head low, her neck stretched out. ‘I’m glad it wasn’t perfect,’ she said. ‘It’s good to see what happens when it goes a bit wrong, and then to watch how it comes right. I’m glad she wanted to go the wrong way.’

I sat very still, rather astonished. There was brilliance in her simplicity. She was not judging: she saw the triumph and she saw the disaster, and she treated those imposters just the same. If there was no going wrong, there would be no coming right.

It is my own idiot brain I need to fix, not my horse. I keep wanting to gallop ahead and say: look, look, there, I have it all sorted, I made a Perfection-Horse. Tell me I’m clever; give me a gold star.

I’m forty-seven years old and I still want a gold star.

After thirty years away from equines, I’m learning a whole new way of horsing. I’m still a novice at it, and I’m still in the foothills, and I’ll still screw up. But the point is that in ten years I shall still be learning. I’d like to be in the saddle when I am ninety, and I’ll be learning then too. It’s not about having a perfect horse, or getting any gold stars, or being a finished horsewoman, it’s about opening my absurd mind and letting knowledge come into it every single day. It’s about slowness and humility and concentrating on the process. Some days there will be wild, flinging delight, high peaks of achievement; some days there will be a crashing down to muddy earth.

The red mare is no pushover. She may be one of the dearest creatures I have ever met, but she is still a half-ton flight animal, bred purely for speed and strength and stamina. She has not an inch of sentiment in her, and if she feels fretful and flighty she will let me know and it’s up to me to do something about it. Three hundred years of selection went into her powerful thoroughbred body, and when I feel that power rising I remember that I can never get cocky or lazy or take anything for granted. Every day, she teaches me something, if only I will let her.

I find this a good reminder for life in general. The book I am writing came to me in a rush, and the words poured out, and I love it and believe in it. But it does not mean I can be cavalier about it. Just as I have to damn well ride that red mare, so I have to damn well write that book. I have to cut and polish and reshape; I have to think and think and think. I have to tie up loose ends and not just skate over the difficult parts. I have to go back to the beginning, literally and figuratively, and take slow steps until I get the thing right. I have to fight, every day, against self-indulgence. I have to fight, every day, against rushing and cutting corners and showing off. It’s not tap dances and show tunes; it’s steadiness and rigour. Which may not be glamorous, but it’s real and true.

 

Today’s pictures:

It was a ravishing day today but cold as buggery, and my fingers are still frozen from removing slabs of ice from the water troughs. So I found some summery pictures from the archive to remind me what warmth feels like:

Tuesday.

So sorry there was no blog yesterday. I was struck down with momentary malaise, and collapsed in a heap.

Today, I woke, after hours and hours of sleep, feeling myself again. The sun was shining and I got things done. I went out into the world and ran errands and felt a quiet sense of organisation grow in me. This is very, very rare, since I am usually all over the place, never getting the practical things done which must be done, wishing vainly that I were one of the shiny, organised people. I’ll never quite crack the secret of it, my head is too full of other things, but, for once, I had a glimpse of order.

Galvanised, I wrote 1272 words of book. I’m still supposed to be cutting, but the onion must be peeled in its own way. As I get to the heart of the thing, I can see what needs to go, but I also see what needs to be added. I know one does not necessarily need a theme, but it turns out I do have one. It’s just that it took me 154,000 words to realise what it was. Now I have the theme, it must be amplified a bit. Although of course banging the poor Dear Readers over the head with it is never a good idea. HEY HEY, LOOK, OVER HERE, THERE IS A THEME!!!!! But still, it’s quite nice to give a little intimation, from time to time. And this sometimes requires a new scene or two.

As the sun continues to shine in its dazzling way, the Younger Niece suggests we do some video action. She is a film student, and she wants to practice on me and the red mare. I am having a very bad hair day, but I’m so excited at the thought of the duchess being caught on film for all eternity that I don’t care. She is very furry, and very muddy, and very scruffy, but she goes round as sweetly as a dressage horse as we free-school, and I leap up and down with pride like a six-year-old. I explain to the Younger Niece about herd behaviour and the nature of the flight animal, and she is so enchanting that she expresses interest. It is possibly not the favourite subject of every 21-year-old, but she has an open mind and a heart the size of Pluto. Even if she were bored to sobs, she would still pretend to be interested, for my sake. She is a very, very special human indeed. An hour in her company is the best tonic in the world. She has the gift, quite natural and completely unforced, of making one feel better about everything. I am an exceptionally lucky aunt.

Most unusually, I’m going away again in four days, so the blog may be spotty, or, like today, rather stilted. Must give them something, shout the stern voices. But what about the packing and planning and emailing and booking and organising? shout the panicked voices. So I do apologise. One I’m settled again on the 14th December, I shall not be going anywhere for months and months, and I’ll concentrate on giving you the good stuff. It is the least you deserve. You really have stuck with me through the thick and the exceptionally thin. Don’t think I take that for granted.

 

Just time for some quick pictures - of the Best Beloveds, some random trees, and the sweet Younger Niece:

The Young People.

I’m always slightly surprised when an entire demographic becomes stigmatised. Show me your working, I want to yell, with my empirical hat on. The Young People, who are so glorious in my eyes that they deserve capital letters, constantly get it in the neck. Oh, the young, with their texting and their gaming and their rising inflections and their like whatever, their inability to write a coherent sentence and their ‘Gr8 to c U’. Oh, oh, the youth of today, who are so coddled they do not know they are born, with their selfies and their instant messaging and their internet obsession and their tragically short attention spans.

This is, of course, old news. If you look at the letters and diaries of the Edwardian generation, the parents of those famous Bright Young Things from the 20s and 30s, you find them filled with despair for the fecklessness and self-indulgence of the pleasure-seeking generation. Many of those same young things went on to fight and die in the Second World War. They turned out not to be quite so feckless, after all.

I’m a huge fan of The Young People. In my experience, they are thoughtful, polite, generous and industrious. The ones I have met cannot all be freaks and anomalies. In my work at HorseBack, I see a lot of the young. Some work as volunteers, some raise funds, some participate in the Youth Philanthropy Initiative. One group walked, cycled and canoed clean across Scotland in aid of HorseBack. The grown-ups who were with them came back inspired, their faith in human nature raised sky-high. The teenagers on that hard challenge never faltered, never complained, and offered help without being asked. I refuse to accept that they are outliers.

I have two lovely young people stories for you today. Both of them are very small stories, but they gave me a pleasure so profound that I wanted to tell you of them.

Yesterday, I promised my mother I would cook her a chicken risotto. I went to the shop. Disaster. No Arborio rice.

A young man was stacking the shelves. Dared I ask him? He would surely think that I was one of those poncy middle-aged, middle-class women, asking him for fancy rice. What was wrong with some nice mince and tatties? Besides, he was busy.

I scuffed my feet and diffidently asked whether he might not have a secret stash of risotto rice in the back. To my astonishment, he did not sneer. Of course he could go and have a look, nothing could be less trouble.

He came back, his face fallen. There was no secret stash. He could not have been sorrier if it were for his own mother. Never mind, I said; thank you so much for taking the time.

I wandered off to gaze at the shelves and replot the lunch in my mind. Perhaps a nice pilaf instead? Pilaf seemed a very poor relation, somehow. I was oddly demoralised by the whole thing.

Suddenly, the young man appeared, beaming and breathless. He brandished the very last packet of Arborio rice in the shop. ‘It was hiding behind the Basmati,’ he said, barely able to conceal his joy.

I could hardly believe it. He had not given up. He had gone and rummaged about on my behalf, and appeared with his prize. I stuttered and gushed. I told him of my delight, of my amazement; I said that he had just made one old lady very happy. ‘I hope your mother enjoys it,’ he said, still grinning all over his face.

‘You have made my day,’ I said.

The smile blazed brighter. ‘Then my work is done,’ he said.

Two days before this happy moment, the post arrived. The post is usually a grave disappointment. It consists of intrusive flyers, charity appeals, cross messages from the council, which clearly believes I am hiding a family of five in my attic and thus cheating on my council tax, and bills. Nobody writes letters any more. Most especially, according to the groaners and grumblers, the Young People do not write letters, because of course they are far too busy composing illiterate texts to pick up a pen.

There was a letter. It was from a Young Person. This particular gentleman had just left university. I had met him at the birthday party of my younger niece a couple of weeks ago. He was exactly my type: witty and thoughtful and very slightly subversive and absolutely his own person. I had done my crazy aunt schtick, and hoped it was not too much.

Apparently it was not too much. The young gentleman had written a letter simply to say that he had loved meeting me. That was the burden of his song.

Another old lady was made very, very happy.

Although I am approaching fifty, most of the time I do not feel that old. Some of the time I feel quite young and quite foolish. But I am keenly aware that to a twenty-one-year-old I must seem perfectly ancient. I am always in danger of falling into the PG Wodehouse aunt trap, and flashing my cloven hoof, and embarrassing the poor niece in front of her friends.

The young gentleman reassured me that this was not the case. What sweetness.

I love these stories because they fit in with my theme of the small things, the tiny, daily, unimportant things which would never make the headlines and yet bring me dancing joy. I like recording the small things, so that I may look back and remember, on the days when the clouds come. But I also love these stories because they are happy reminders to all those grumbly grouches that the Young People should not be written off. Despite all rumours to the contrary, they delight and surprise. I take all my hats off to them.

 

Today’s pictures:

Too busy for the camera today, so here are some photographs I took of the glorious young people who came to my sweet niece’s 21st birthday weekend. You can see why I was so taken with them:

And one of my favourite candid shots of the niece herself, looking, I think, a bit like Julie Christie:

The thing that struck me about this group was how affectionate they were to each other, how courteous they were to the older generation, and how particularly touching they were with the very little children. You can see in the pictures one set of boys being perfectly enchanting with my great-niece and nephew. They had been dancing till dawn night, and they had all their friends there to talk to, but they took time to play football with the smalls. That’s right up there with the waiter test in my book, as far as character goes. Five gold stars, of the most glittery variety.

Oh, and here is the old aunt, at the party itself, with the glad rags on, just so you can see that I am not always cantering about with hay in my hair and mud on my boots:

But still, PG gets the last word:

“It is no use telling me there are bad aunts and good aunts. At the core, they are all alike. Sooner or later, out pops the cloven hoof. ”

Ha. That is why I cropped the picture.

The Sweetest Photograph in the World.

Obviously, the title of this post refers to an entirely subjective judgement.

It is the sweetest photograph in my very own eyes.

Here I am, this morning, with the two nieces, the red mare and the little American Paint.





There are several things which I love about this picture. One is that the two nieces and I are hardly ever together in the same place. They are young and antic and move about a lot, embarking on their own lives. So it is extremely special when the three of us are reunited.

Second, I love that The Younger Niece and The American Paint both are doing almost identical ready for their close-up faces. (Autumn the Filly’s owner was taking the picture, so it might have been a pretty face for her. But it still makes me laugh and laugh.)

Third, I find it amusing that despite the fact I am supposed to be posing for a rare photograph with my beloveds, I am far too busy pulling Red’s ears to put on my own camera face.

Fourth, it was quite a tight space, between two stretches of grass that MUST NOT BE STEPPED ON. (The Brother-in-Law gets sad if there are hoofmarks all over his nice turf.) So The Older Niece, as you can see, is having to crane her neck even to be seen. Hello, I’m here at the back.

Fifth, that dozy old donkey you see there on the left, all muddy and woolly and shaggy, really is one of the poshest horses in Britain. My father brought me up not to pay any attention to human grandeur, but oh, when it comes to horses, he gave me a snobbism I cannot shake. I am not especially proud of the fact. But on dark nights, when my heart is afflicted with melancholy, I am afraid I trace Red’s pedigree back through Nijinksy and Northern Dancer to Hyperion and St Simon, in order to cheer myself up.

She has not only that obvious top line, but Derby winners a go-go in the bottom line. I love reading the storied names, as lyrical as poetry: Mahmoud, Sir Peter Teazle, Voltigeur, Smolensko, Dante, Gainsborough. She has the Byerley Turk, the rarest of the three foundation sires, twice. Nearly everyone has the Godolphin Arabian, as she does, but not everyone has the Turk.
None of this really means anything, but it means something to me. And what I really love is that there she is, day after day, dopey as a faithful hound, following me back to the field without a rope, swinging her dear, scruffy head, smiling her soft equine smile, quite unaware of the blue blood which courses through her veins. Of course, I could posh her up a bit. I could give her a haircut and brush a bit more of that mud off her. But I like her being a horse, mooching around in her paddock, getting as dirty as she likes, no matter how many glittering prizes her ancestors won.

And in other horse loveliness, the most tenacious, gutsy, bold and brave Bobs Worth returned to his best in Ireland today, and made my mother and me cry. He’s one of the most talented and most tough horses in racing and last time out he never went a yard. After a horse has been triumphant in a hard Gold Cup, there is always the danger he is never quite the same again. Some big race glories can take it out of a horse; they can look fine, work well at home, seem well in themselves, but that glittering, glimmering brilliance has been dulled, in a way that nobody quite understands.

After watching an uncharacteristically lacklustre run at Haydock, I feared for little Bobs Worth. He was so magnificent last season, and I was sad to see a champion brought low. But today, he kindled his fire again, and even though he had it all to find after the last, he picked himself up, put his head down in his trademark terrier fashion, and powered past his rivals.

Then he pricked his ears, stretched his neck, and looked up at the stands, as if to say: Ah, you were fretting over nothing. I got it covered, said Bobs Worth. I’m back. And the crowd, which knows greatness when it sees it, rose to him in delight.
 
Some more sweet pictures for you:







Back in the paddock, modelling her astoundingly smart new Amigo rug. I don’t really believe in giving animals Christmas presents, but the old rug was falling to pieces, literally held together with binder twine, and this one happened to arrive just yesterday, so it does feel almost like a present. And she looks so smart in it. Excellent service from the wonderful Ride-Away, who should surely employ the red mare as a model. She is, I often think, wasted in real life:



She did get an awful lot of love:



And, in other news – Stan the Man has a BLOODY ENORMOUS STICK:

1st January, 2013. A rather sweet start.

A very sweet start to the new year. The party was a wild success. I danced until three. I have not done that since the old queen died. When I arrived back at my sister’s house this morning, all the young people were milling about looking adorable and sheepish on about two hours’ sleep. (The Younger Niece had a tremendous gaggle of her friends staying, all very funny and polite, and courteous enough not to make me feel like the ancient aunt.)

I had come for post-party gossip, but also because one of the dearest of the Young People was having horse withdrawal. She is having to sell her own equine now she is at university, and had looked wistful and excited when I spoke of my mare last night, so I was going to take her for a visit.

As I mentioned the mare’s name, another of the Young People turned to me, her face blazing with delight. ‘Did you say horse?’ she said.

I knew that look. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You are one of mine. Get your coat on.’

So out I went with the two young girls, to find Red drowsing and dozing in the bright Scottish sunshine. Her visitors practically swooned with delight.

Red has her moods. Sometimes she is not that interested in human contact; she is just doing her horse thing. But when she is all still and goofy and relaxed, she will soak up love like nothing else. She was, by great good chance, in just such a mood today. She blinked with slow pleasure as her guests exclaimed over her beauty (how my heart swelled with pride), stroked her neck, gentled her muzzle, and generally paid her the obeisance due to such a duchess as she.

I love the Young People. I don’t buy this notion that they are all good for nothing but texting and playing computer games and doing foolish things on Facebook. (So cheap, that argument, and so intellectually lazy.) The Niece’s Young People are a particularly charming bunch. They are very characterful, and they have excellent manners. So to be able to start the new year by giving two of them such simple joy was a very, very lovely thing for me.

It is one of the many blessings this dear equine has brought, in the last year. It if were not for her, I would not have met the brilliant HorseBack people, which has brought a whole new dimension to my life. I would not have the great company of the Horse Talker. I would never have known of the American Paint. I would not have the furry delight of little Myfanwy the Pony. I would not be fit, since I despise exercise for its own sake. Now I have strength in my body which it has not known since I was in my twenties. I am out in the earth and the weather every day; I am no longer a slave to the screen. It really is rather an amazing confluence of events, all from one glorious creature.

There are people who think the horse thing is a bit crazed. It is a bit of a bonkers love, but once it seizes your heart, it is like nothing else. As I watched Red being so sweet with those happy girls, refuting all the horrid stereotypes about thoroughbreds and ex-racing horses, as I saw the gleaming expressions of excitement and joy on their young faces, I thought: this is what it’s all about. The simple pleasures, the true loves, even the faintly nutty obsessions. Why not have a crazed passion? One can’t go through the whole of life being measured and usual and sensible. Red the Mare is my passion, and one of my resolutions for 2013 is not to apologise for that.

 

Today’s pictures:

Mr Stanley was in fine looks today:

We did some excellent work on sit and stay:

And here is the lovely girl, at her doziest, donkiest, muddiest, scruffiest best, just a horse in a field:

Even though these kind of pictures do not show her full beauty, I love them, because they show her just being her absolute horsey self, at one with the world:

However, pride compels me to add some more ready-for-her-close-up shots, from the summer, when she ruled Red’s View:

And talking of beauty, as I was going through the archive, I found this dear departed face:

To all the Dear Readers, a very Happy New Year. And to all your horses too.

Two good words

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I am afraid I am going to admit something shockingly sappy. My favourite thing about this time of year is that you get to say Happy Christmas to people. It’s such a simple salutation, but it is oddly pleasing. How often, after all, may you say Happy anything to near strangers?

Last night, a rather amazing thing happened. I have a televisual device called BT vision. It has its limitations, but it suits me. One of the most important things is that you can record stuff on it. My device had broken, and I was getting in a panic that I would not be able to record Kauto Star attempting to win his fifth King George on Boxing Day, which is the highlight of my year.

Of course, I had left it absurdly late to ring. I was convinced that the poor person on the other end of the telephone would be defeated, and there would be muttering about an engineer being able to call some time towards the end of January. I was braced for disaster.

BT has a bad reputation for its telephone helpline. There are many horror stories on the internet. Also, they have their call centres in India, and often the line is rather bad, and I end up yelling at some poor Indian person, simply to be heard over the crackle, and worry that they will think I am one of those awful unreconstructed Britons who believe in shouting at Johnny Foreigner.

Anyway, at about six, I finally got around to ringing. I got a very determined young fellow. ‘I reassure you that I shall get my tools and do my utmost best to solve this problem,’ he said, sternly. I loved him at once.

I explained that I had gone to the help page on the website and followed the instructions to reset the system, to no avail. The gentleman was amazed. ‘No one does that,’ he said. ‘They normally just ring us up. I must say that I am very impressed, and thank you for going to the help page first.’

I blushed. ‘Well, you know,’ I mumbled. ‘One doesn’t like to bother people for nothing.’

We ran through a number of things. I kept having to put the telephone down and go into the next room, whilst the polite fellow waited patiently on the end of the telephone. I was still convinced that he would be able to do nothing. Then, suddenly, the thing worked. My Kauto dream could come true.

‘I don’t believe it,’ I said. ‘You are a genius. Thank you so much for your determination and patience.’ (It had taken forty minutes.)

‘I am delighted to be of assistance,’ said the gentleman.

I asked, because I am always interested, where exactly he was. New Delhi, it turned out.

‘And may I ask your name?’ I said.

‘Shiv,’ he said.

‘Well, thank you very much, Shiv,’ I said. I thought Shiv was a delightful name, very chic and elegant. It’s exactly the sort of name I would like to give to a character in a novel.

Then, and this is the point of this rather rambly story, I wanted to say Happy Christmas. I was filled with festive spirit. But I thought that Shiv might be a Hindu; possibly even named after Lord Shiva. Would it be a terrible cultural faux pas? Would I be like a woman in a Bateman cartoon?

Then the gentleman saved me. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ I said in relief. ‘And Happy Christmas to you too.’

The irony, I think now, is that quite possibly that was an exchange between a Hindu and an atheist (although I should not make too many assumptions; in New Delhi you may find Muslims, Sikhs, Christians, Buddhists, Zoroastrians, Jains and Jews). But that is the thing I love about Christmas. It is such a welcoming festival. It does not matter if you do not believe in the literal truth of the virgin birth. You may celebrate the spirit of the season, a spirit of joy and new life and family and love and kindness. You can embrace the lovely, ecumenical ideal of peace on earth, and goodwill to all men, and women too.

It’s the thing I like about the Church of England too, as they welcome people into church who only come once a year, and may not follow strict religious practices, and the vicars smile to themselves as everyone loudly sings We Three Kings of Orient Are.

This morning, I went to the village to do more errands. The sun was shining, and the air was balmy and cool. Everyone was smiling. I took the special fridge cake to the lovely newsagent, who was wearing her excellent festive cowboy hat, trimmed with fur. ‘Happy Christmas,’ I said.

‘Happy Christmas,’ I said to the people in my favourite shop in Deeside, The Black-faced Sheep, where you may find the finest coffee in Scotland.

‘Happy Christmas,’ I said to the kind lady in the chemist.

‘Happy Christmas,’ I said to the gentleman from the Rotary Club who was packing bags in the Co-op in return for a small donation to good causes.

‘Happy Christmas,’ I said to Lewis at the checkout, who looks as if he should be playing bass in Coldplay.

Friends came round to drop off presents, including one from my small nine-year-old friend B. ‘Happy Christmas, Happy Christmas,’ I said.

I have not been feeling awfully Christmassy this week. I have had moments of great missing: for my dear departed dad, for my beloved dead Duchess. I have been rather cross and disorganised. But today, suddenly I got the spirit of the season, and that felt like a bit of a present, in itself.

I listened to a funny programme on the wireless, Jon Holmes and Miranda Hart being very jolly and comical and Christmassy as all get out. Then The Younger Niece arrived, and we walked up to see Virginia the Pig. ‘Oh,’ said The Niece, as we fed her nuts, ‘what a very lovely pig she is.’

Now someone is singing Silent Night. It is giving me chills. I feel happy, and lucky.

I know that Christmas is not always easy, for a myriad of reasons. But I hope that wherever you are, and whatever you are facing, you may find joy.

 

And now, the pictures of the day.

Up the avenue The Niece and I went:

To see Virginia the Pig:

And back down the avenue we went:

 

To see the sheep:

Oh, said The Niece, look at the light:

Then I made The Pigeon pose in the afternoon sun:

Look at her shining amber eyes:

And the hill, gracious and slightly misty:

Oh, and I meant to say: today is the funeral of Vaclav Havel, so I am thinking of that Velvet Revolution again. I am rather pleased and impressed that the Prime Minister made the effort to go himself, rather than sending a representative. Politics is so complicated now, and conditions so fraught and often unknowable; it is very rare that a political operative may do something to which one can give unequivocal approval. So it is rather nice, in the spirit of Christmas, to be able to say: Yes, Prime Minister.