Of crazy projects and gold medals

Slight state of collapse. Stayed up all night working on secret project. It has suddenly grabbed me and will not let go. I found myself wide awake at five in the morning, having written four thousand words.

I sent it to The Playwright. This is all his fault. It was his idea in the first place. I asked him to tell me at once if the whole thing was a load of buggery bollocks, because I had drunk so much coffee I could not tell. I did not want to send it to my agent if it was too shaming.

The reply came back before breakfast. ‘Send it,’ he wrote.

(I should explain what an act of friendship that is. It’s very difficult reading pages for someone to whom you are close; there are elephant traps everywhere. Also, The Playwright, as his name suggests, has things of his own to be writing. To read and respond so quickly is something not that many people would do. It is an act of true generosity and elegance.)

Anyway, I sent it.

The reply was also swift. Automated reply: agent out of the office until 13^th August. I had no idea how I was going to deal with the tension until then. Luckily, the Younger Niece has just received a diploma in bartending, so if the worst comes to the worst, I can get her to feed me white ladies.

Then, just before lunch, the agent emailed. She was on holiday in Italy, but she had read my twenty pages. ‘Write it,’ she wrote. ‘Already thinking of editors.’

I CANNOT TELL YOU WHAT THIS MEANS.

Sorry about the capitals. I got into hysterical cap mode whilst watching the dressage and it seems that this is a day for intemperance and hyperbole. The thing is, the last book was such a struggle. We never struck off on the right leg, and have been slightly out of kilter ever since. It will still need a battling third draft. But this secret project is pouring out of me like starlight. I never pull all-nighters except on the day before deadline. I had only sat down to noodle about for my own pleasure.

When a book grabs you by the neck, you can only submit. What you cannot tell is whether anyone else will be as entranced by it as you are yourself. That is why the agent’s email felt so sweet. I jumped and shouted and punched the air. The Pigeon looked most quizzical and slightly shocked.

So now I have a lovely new project which is real, not secret, and it feels as if something wonderful has shifted and I do not need to sit at my desk with my shoulders about my ears, desperately doing pitches which never quite hit the right note.

As a treat, I let myself watch the finals of the dressage in the afternoon. That was when the mad capital letter tweeting started. A resolute band of horse-lovers on my timeline was as nervy and excited as I. The levels of skill and beauty were off the scale. I may describe it on another day, when I can focus my eyes. But the glorious thing was that despite massive scores posted by the Dutch and Germans, Charlotte Dujardin, the British rider, won gold, with her lovely horse Valegro.

They performed a test of beauty and humour and a little sprinkling of patriotism even; it held a flash of eccentricity, a whiff of irony. It was, in other words, a very British test, except for the part where it was perfect, which is not a virtue these islands are known for. They were immaculate, and when they won, there was not a dry eye in the house. Certainly not in this house. It was really, really lovely.

Up to my own mare now. I may explain to her the mysteries of the reverse pirouette. Or, I may not. (Ha, ha, ha, she will say to Myfanwy the Pony, after I have gone; do you know what the old girl was banging on about tonight?)

 

Pictures of evening walk with The Younger Brother:

Pigeon, doing extended trot in honour of the dressage:

Red the Mare, showing off her flying change:

Hill:

Of horses, gold medals and secret projects

It turns out I have a secret project. I love a secret project. Most of these go nowhere, but merely occupy my midnight hours. This one, however, may have legs. It was suggested to me by The Playwright, and since he is the wisest man I know, I usually do exactly what he says. (I always know he is serious when he starts a telephone call with a firm, yet faintly quizzical, ‘Now...’)

Anyway, this morning I just sat down and wrote 1695 words of the secret project, on top of my other work. So I feel rather surprised and industrious.

I watched the dressage in the afternoon as a treat. Everyone rode beautifully and the horses did the impossible things that dressage horses do, and madly, Britain won. Blighty has never won a dressage medal in its life. Roumania and Mexico have more dressage medals than we do, and one does not necessarily think of them as the home of the English style of riding. But suddenly everything shone with perfection and not a hoof was in the wrong place and everyone practically fainted with astonishment and pleasure.

Every time I turn on the wireless now, I hear an excited reporter saying: ‘Britain’s won another gold medal.’ I literally heard that exact sentence on the way up to the mares to do evening stables, and on the way home again. What is rather sweet is that it is not said in any triumphalist way. Britain is used to being a bit crap, her glory days behind her. She watches, like a tired and indulgent old aunt, as the boisterous teenagers, America and China, take over the world. They expect, I suspect, to be world-beaters. It always astonishes me when I hear American politicians or commentators state with certainty that theirs is the greatest nation on earth. I am slightly envious of such self-belief. If asked, most Britons might mutter that their country is ‘all right, I suppose’. It’s the same mindset that replies ‘Not too bad,’ when asked how one is.

So the sports reporters sound not like mighty titans, certain of British glory, but like little boys, absolutely giddy and astounded that these things are happening to battered old us. Even the BBC newsreaders who are on strict instructions from the grave of Lord Reith never to get excited about anything (impartiality at all times) cannot keep an antic delight out of their voices.

I love it. I love that people are getting excited about sports they never heard of until two weeks ago. My mother follows everything, and now is quite knowledgeable about archery and judo. Who knew that Britons were brilliant at the dressage and the pommel horse? Someone on Twitter got very cross when I dared to suggest that the national mood was light, pointing out, quite correctly that there isn’t really any such thing as national mood. But there perhaps are moments of national spirit, when the imagination of the public is caught, and something in the dusty zeitgeist shifts, and I think this might be one of those times.

The mare, catching a whiff of Olympic fever in the air, decided to perform her very own dressage test out in her field. It was sort of polo dressage: tight turns, sudden flat gallop, floating extended trot, stop on a sixpence. She loves doing this when the mood is in her, and it makes me double up with laughter. What always astonishes me is that when the bronco is out of her, she immediately reverts to her dozy donkey state. She turns to me, lowers her head in a little bow, and offers her forehead for scratching. The lower lip wibbles and the eyelashes flutter, and the wild thing becomes a dope, who only wishes for love. It’s very touching. At moments like that, my heart bursts in my chest, and I run out of words for love.

 

Today’s pictures:

Here goes Red the mare, with all her high ancestry thrilling in her:

And then, when she has calmed down and had a nice brush, she looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth:

Myfanwy the Pony, who did excellent work this morning:

This is the face the Pigeon makes when I make her pose for photographs instead of throwing her ball:

Isn’t it pitiful? I think she may be developing into a bit of a drama queen in her old age:

Hill:

In which I examine my patriotic pride for bugs, and cheer on the great British riders

The Dear Readers take a stand against patriotism, and in a way they are quite right. It is, after all, the last refuge of the scoundrel. It is such a random thing, which country you are born in; really, we are all citizens of the world.

In some ways, though, I think patriotism gets a bad name. It need not be a narrow, competitive thing. One can feel fondness for one’s country without thinking it is the best. There is a great difference between narrow chauvinism and generous national pride.

I feel about my country the same way I feel about my family. One may feel pride in one’s mother’s or father’s achievements, even though it has absolutely nothing to do with one, and the people to whom one is born is just as random as is one’s home city.

I feel insanely proud that I had a dad who rode in the Grand National, even though he did it before I ever existed. When I think of him and miss him, I look at a picture of him booting some dear old steeplechaser over a fence, his teeth gritted, a look of manic determination and wild joy in his eyes, and I feel happy again. I do not think my family or my country is the finest that ever existed; quite the opposite. I love them because of their flaws, not in spite of them. (Someone, I think it may have been Balzac, said that is the truest kind of love.)

My fondness for Britons stems not from the hope that they might be world-beaters, but because of the family connection: the shared references, the in-jokes, the cultural shorthands. It is familiarity, as much as anything. It is understanding about Marmite and Monty Python and Mrs Slocombe’s pussy and Pride and Prejudice and Dad’s Army and Dr Who and we few, we happy few. (Even these shorthands may fracture; many of my cultural markers will be strange to those of my compatriots under forty.)

In these games, it shall be lovely to see fine competitors of whatever nationality fulfil their potential, be rewarded for all that work and striving. But if Rebecca Adlington or Mary King or Ben Ainslie or William Fox-Pitt win something, there shall be an extra frisson of delight, because we are related by all the national icons, stitched together by the NHS, and the weather, and self-deprecation, and Shakespeare, and all those other things of which Britain's identity is made.

It is a bit nuts to love one country more than another, but human emotions are not always neatly explicable. Danny Boyle’s great and glorious opening ceremony reminded a lot of Britons what it is that makes us fond and proud: the eccentric, the historic, the exuberant, the very slightly odd. I doubt that any other country on earth would have put dancing nurses into a sporting extravaganza. Or suffragettes and shire horses and Chelsea Pensioners and sheep, for that matter. It had nothing to do with me, yet I did feel proud. I even quite liked the very British fact that, beside all the delight and amazement and applause, there was the statutory curmudgeonly grumbling. We do curmudgeonly better than anyone.

I think you can wave your own flag without wanting to lower anyone else’s. Poor old Blighty is a bit battered and bashed at the moment, what with the crappy economy and industrial decline and the embarrassment of the football. It would cheer one up to win something.

But if we don’t, the crowds will still cheer for those of other nations who do. They will cheer effort as much as victory. This generous spirit was on display on the water this morning, when a capacity crowd saved its biggest roar of the day for a rower from Niger, who was so far behind the rest that he was practically in another county. Hamadou Djibo Issaka has, I very much doubt, a drop of British blood, but he showed the glorious underdog spirit which Britons love the most, and was taken instantly to the spectators’ hearts. I don’t think anyone on the water got more sincere applause.

My Team GB cockles were warmed today by the lovely performances from Zara Phillips and William Fox-Pitt in the dressage stage of the three-day-event. Most of all, I was thrilled by the extraordinary composure of Tina Cook, who had to ride the most delicate of equestrian disciplines in a torrential rain storm. She and her lovely horse, Miners Frolic, rose mightily to the occasion, and, despite thunder and lightning, made a brilliant score of 42.00. Cook’s father, Josh Gifford was a racing compadre of my father’s. He most famously trained Aldaniti to win the Grand National, and, even more memorably, refused to jock off the cancer-stricken Bob Champion when some of his owners complained. So he was a great gentleman, and he died in February, and I thought of that as I watched Cook. I wondered if she were remembering her dad and wishing he were there to see her. He would have been fiercely proud.

Taking my Blighty hat off, I was incredibly happy to see the majestic horseman Mark Todd of New Zealand, still at the top of the world at the age of 56, ride a perfect, balletic test on his delightful Campino. The knowledgeable crowd also took their own nationalist hats off to give the tremendous Kiwi a rousing cheer, recognising true excellence when they saw it. The commentators were beside themselves. ‘Toddy,’ they said, with joy and admiration, ‘very, very good.’

Tomorrow, I shall be shouting for the British riders as they face the daunting cross country fences. Team GB lies in third place, just behind Germany and Australia. In a way, none of this matters. It is just a sporting competition; national glory is only a human construct, and a fairly peculiar one. But for all that, I do feel proud, and I do feel hopeful, and I shall be waving my metaphorical flag. They are all such great competitors, and the horses are so brave and fine. Let them go for gold.

 

I did not have a moment to take out the camera today. What with working with the horses and watching the dressage and I don’t know what else, the day got away from me. Just time for my girls, in elegant black and white: