New hair, and thoughts on the Arkle. Or why I love the lovely Overturn.

Really don’t know what I am doing with this blog now. All the cards are up in the air with the onset of Cheltenham.

First of all, I decided to take some pictures of my new hair, so you could see it. The Dear Readers always have to see the new hair; it’s tradition. As I was doing so, I felt my usual emotion of mild absurdity. I decided to imagine Overturn beating Simonsig in the Arkle. This is the expression that resulted:

(Slightly crazed, I do admit.)

And now to much more serious matters, of Prestbury Park, and the beautiful creatures we shall see there over the next few days.

My plan is to write about a few of the races over the next week that really interest me. There’s going to be a lot of racing and horseflesh on the blog from now on, so for those of you who have no interest, just pretend I really am on holiday and not posting at all.

For the rest, here are my thoughts on the Arkle, and the two great horses whom I think will dominate the great race, named after Himself, the finest National Hunt horse of the last hundred years.

Simonsig is a very thrilling chasing prospect. He has never been off the bridle this season, and has strolled to two imperious victories, gloriously unbothered by having to wade through heavy mud. He won the Neptune last year, so he has the crucial festival form; that hill holds no fears for him. According to people who know, he is scorching the turf off the gallops at home, leaving observers gaping in his wake.

On paper, nothing can touch him.

But Cheltenham is not paper. That is why there are always smoking favourites which get bowled over. I remember last year when everyone said that Boston Bob was the absolute Irish banker of the whole meeting. Suitcases of cash from over the sea were riding on his talented back. But there was a lovely young horse from Scotland called Brindisi Breeze, whom I backed at 9-1, partly because of the Scottishness, partly because I liked him, partly because I admire Lucinda Russell and she does not send horses four hundred miles for nothing, and partly because I’ve never quite believed in the Cheltenham banker.

Even this year, I would say there is only one, which is the untouchable Sprinter Sacre. Simonsig, Pont Alexandre, Quevega, and Dynaste will all be described as bankers, but I can see Overturn, The New One, Une Artiste and Captain Conan coming along and shaking up all those certainties.

This is the thrilling, edge-of-your seat thing about racing. It is the glory of the thoroughbred, in all its enduring mystery. There are so many tiny imponderables which can make a difference, from the serious business of the tactics of a race, to something as trivial as the first thing a horse sees when it gets off the lorry at the course. If something spooks a highly-bred racehorse, and it gets itself too revved up in the preliminaries, the race can be frittered away right there. (The lovely Australian mare Ortensia did this at Ascot last year.)

And so, there is the great flying grey Simonsig, for whom the sky is the limit. And there is the brilliant journeyman, Overturn, who can turn his hoof to anything. He’s been around for longer; he’s run at the very highest levels over hurdles and on the flat. He was second in last year’s Champion Hurdle, which is not too shabby, and he has now taken, rather late in life, to fences, as if they were the things he had been waiting for.

He bowls along in front, often with his ears pricked, jumping for fun. He does perhaps not quite have the white heat of Simonsig, but he has a lovely, honest exuberance which makes it look as if he is dancing over the big obstacles. He is tough and genuine, and he is going to be the first horse Simonsig has encountered over fences who will not let the grey have it all his own way.

I think, in my most stern, scientific self, that Simonsig probably has the edge. My head says he probably is a banker.

But I love Overturn with every beat of my stupid old racing heart. I think he is my favourite horse in training. He’s so bright and bonny and he loves what he does and he does not know how to run a bad race. So he is my pick. It is not a forensic decision. It’s all for love.

It’s a small bet only. And, win or lose, he still is an absolute champion in my heart.

I am keeping strictly to my new policy of not abusing copywright and putting up naughty pictures of my favourites here. Those racing photographers have a tough living to make, and I must not pinch their hard work. If you want to see the two gorgeous fellas, Simonsig is here:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/sport/2012/dec/27/nicky-henderson-simonsig-second-week

And my best beloved Overturn is here:

http://uk.eurosport.yahoo.com/13032012/8/photo/overturn-ridden-jockey-jason-maguire-coming-second-stan-james-ch.html

Of lost time and lost dogs. Or, forgive me if I am not making much sense.

For those just joining:

Suddenly thought I ought to do a recap. One of the dullest things in the world, in life, is people talking about people you have never met, as if you have met them.

‘Oh, Archibald,’ they say; ‘ran off with a bongo player.’

Or: ‘Dinah’s never really been the same since the incident.’

There is a special sort of face I affect when this happens, and I have absolutely no idea who Archibald and Dinah are, or even if they are human (in certain company, likelihood is they could be dogs or horses). It is a bright, interested face, slightly stretched, faintly quizzical. What that covers, not always terribly well, is a what the buggery bollocks are you talking about face.

So, for the new Dear Readers – I have a most Beloved Cousin in the south. We are quite distant cousins, so we did not grow up together, but we have known each other well since we were eighteen. Her parents were like my second family, and over the years we spent happy holidays and Christmases and Easters together. Her husband is a professional polo player, who used to play high goal, but now mostly makes ponies for the top players.

Those who make their living from polo have to go where the work is, and in the winter months that is South America. So, once in November, and once in March, off the Old Fella goes to the pampas, and I pack up the car and come here for three weeks at a time, to help with the children, whom I have known since the day they were born, and be company for the cousin, and generally keep the home fires burning.

It is a very lovely and touching arrangement, and brings us all a lot of joy. In particular, for me, it is a revealing slice of family life. Since I decided not to have children of my own, the domestic life is a bit of mystery to me. I feel very lucky to have the liberty of a solitary existence, but I also love the fact that, twice a year, I plunge into the rhythms and jokes and business of the small people.

Anyway, for those just tuning in, that is what I am doing now. And every year, I slightly forget the all-consuming nature of it. That is why it is only now, at eight-thirty at night, with the little ones in bed, bath time over, supper made and eaten, that I can sit down at my computer and type the blog. (Or The Blob, as my middle cousin calls it.)

The thing that amazes me is the rushing of time, in a family house. All I did today was run a few errands, arrange some domestic arrangements, and effect the making of a special green soup, and the day was gone. That is why I say, every single time: I don’t know how you parents do it, and, every single time, all my hats must come off.

The girls in particular adore and demand the special green soup, which astonishes me (they are four and ten) and delights me in equal measure.

‘This is the BEST TEA EVER,’ shouts the four-year-old. She looks at me seriously. ‘We must have it every night.’

I know very few four year olds who would willingly choose a soup made from courgettes and spinach and leeks over, say, chicken and chips, but she would. She is a rare creature, but even so.

And it’s not as if she is a perfect, cookie cutter child. She’s not a cute, magazine baby. She is capable of wails and that sudden exhaustion that very small people are prone to and the streaming moment when nothing will do for her at all and she does not know what she wants. She can be furious and cussed and even, on occasion, stamp her foot. (She reminds me of myself at that age.)

But when it comes to eating, what she loves the most is the green stuff, and my green stuff in particular. It makes me feel as if I have won a prize or just published a number one bestseller. The compliments of children are the sweetest, because when humans are that small they do not flatter or flannel or dissemble. They tell you exactly what they think, without prevarication, at the very moment they think it.

The thing I love about these children is that they are very talkative and funny and interesting. Flights of fancy soar about all over the shop. Quite often, for no particular reason, they burst into song.

People are often surprised that I like children, when I don’t want to have my own. This is a small category error. (I don’t not want them because I dislike them; I don’t want them because it is not my talent, and I’m a great believer in playing to one’s strengths.) There is also the error of thinking that because one can get on with certain children, one is a children person. I regard small humans just the same as I regard grown ones; some are fascinating and delightful, and some are wearing and faintly dull. Just because someone is under three feet high, I do not automatically find them adorable.

It’s the same thing with dogs, I suddenly realise. Because I loved my two old ladies so much, because there was the joke of me being stranded on Dog Island without a ferry home, people sometimes think I am a categorical Dog Person. In fact, the utter singularity of my glorious, intelligent, sleek black girls has almost spoilt me for all other canines. I am a perfect bundle of awful dog prejudice. I do not like the small, yappy ones; I do not like over-bred, frankly peculiar-looking ones (I find Crufts absolute torture for this reason); I cannot favour needy, wiggly ones.

This shocking bigotry even goes into the tiny details: I prefer short hair to long, black to tan, cross-breeds to pure bred. What I really love is a mutt, something at which the Kennel Club would turn up its toffee nose. I like working dogs, who, even if they spend half the day dozing on the sofa, at least are designed for an honest day’s graft. The Pigeon and the Duchess, with their half Labrador, half collie heritage, were the crest and peak of this.

Sometimes, when I miss the Pigeon so much that I can hardly function, I think I shall never find her like again. And perhaps I shall not. But I am sneaking off tomorrow to meet a lonely gentleman who has had a hard start in life, and who, as the rescue sites put it, yearns for his Forever Home.

It might not take. I’m not even sure I am ready. But it seems absolutely idiotic to have read all those books on dog psychology (they need a pack leader, etc etc), to live in a place which is the very definition of dog heaven, to have the luxury of time, which so few people really do have, and to close myself off, just because there is a crack in my heart.

Another mistake people make is to think that by getting a new dog, one may heal the crack. I don’t think that is it at all. The crack will remain; there is nothing to be done about that except allow it to exist. It’s not so much that getting another dog will fill the space left by the divine girls; it’s that there is room, around the cracked part of the heart, to give a poor lost mutt another chance. Rude not to, really. The break will heal in its own time, but while it does, there’s no excuse not to give the love to a creature that may really need it.

Does that make any sense at all? I’m at the stage when my eyes are crossing and my neurones are short-circuiting, and my fingers can barely type a decent word, let alone bang out a coherent thought. But you must have the blog, and so tap tap tap I go, in the hope that there may be something there, despite everything.

 

Too exhausted for proper photographs, so here are a very few not entirely brilliant ones for you:

Smallest Cousin, interpreting life through the medium of creative dance. Otherwise known as Waving Her Hands About:

Middle Cousin, practicing music:

Serious dog training, in very interesting outfit:

The lovely furry girls I left behind in Scotland:

Last time I was here, the Pigeon was with. Here she is, from the archive:

With her friends in the south, looking slightly grand and put-upon, as she always did when pulling rank with what she clearly regarded as younger, sillier dogs:

The astonishing beauty of the dear old Duchess, from the archive. You do see why there is a part of me that thinks there shall never be another:

PS. The hair comments have been making me laugh and laugh. You have to remember that when I say dotty, it is a relative term. My lovely hairdresser is real old school. His salon is mostly filled with those tremendous old dames who get their hair set once a week, with rollers and clouds of Elnett. Thus, the idea of having a barnet chopped short and striped with red and black is considered most eccentric. In fact, in the wider world, it is a perfectly ordinary cut. I have not gone punk. (I did once do peroxide spikes, but that was another lifetime.) There shall be pictures, never fear, once I get my act together. But I don’t want your expectations to be too high.

Family life

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

The writing of the blog gets later and later. This is the thing that amazes me about family life: what the geek character in a glossy American thriller would call time suckage. I write that not in a tone of disparagement, but of awe and wonder. Awe is an overused word; but I do remain in awe of those of you who look after the families.

Perhaps I should explain for those of you new to the blog that each November, I come to the Beloved Cousin whilst her husband is in South America for his work. Together, we do the domestic life, with three children from twelve to three. I tend to take over the cooking, because that is what I love.

What astonishes me is the amount of co-ordination that is needed. We spend a great deal of time making lists. Then I usually lose or forget my list and have to make a new one. Menus are also interestingly complex. All the food groups must be represented. Someone does not like cheese; someone else cannot eat fish. We can’t have chicken on Thursday because we had it on Tuesday. Also, there are an amazing amount of errands that must be run. At home, I just have myself and The Pigeon to look after; I write my book and indulge my passion for American politics. Here, I realise the great gift of time that I sometimes take for granted.

Today was not an especially crowded day, on paper. Yet, it ended up so busy that by seven o’clock, when the children had been fed and bathed, I had not stopped for a second to listen to the news. That is why The World has been rather absent from this blog for the last couple of weeks. I am normally a fiend for current affairs; now, the Cousin comes downstairs and says: ‘The stock markets have gone apocalyptic again,’ and I feel the shock of insulation. For all I know, the revolution could have happened, crowds with pitchforks could be walking down Whitehall, and all I would be aware of is that we must get the Chemistry revised for the Godson’s exams tomorrow.

For all that, it was a day of small, but potent pleasures. I saw some lovely people who knew my dad in his youth. They spoke of him with such admiration and fondness; they remembered his great racing days, his courage, his brilliance on the back of a horse. It was keenly bittersweet. I was able to talk of him without a tremor in my voice, but as I type this now I feel a little flayed, the grief still near the surface even after six months. I spoke to my friend the Man of Letters this morning, his voice strong and reassuring down the line. His theory is that it takes a year, to feel normal again. I quite like that theory. It means I don’t have to bash myself about for having moments still of sudden, streaming fragility.

In the evening, my sister’s dear face appeared on the Skype, which is still a kind of miracle to me. I got news of the Nieces. We made some Christmas plans. In the removed from the world state I am in, I vaguely hope there still will be Christmas by the time I get home.

I speak to my mother, who kindly informs me that she is making sure the autumn leaves are being cleared from my flowerbeds, so I do not come back to dead, brown mulch.

I think: people are very kind.

My conclusion from all this, because I like to have a conclusion, is that you are a bit of a miracle, all you family people out there. Especially the single mothers and fathers. The old platitude of not enough hours in the day comes bashing home when I see what is required, just to keep the charabanc on the road, at close quarters. It is a platitude because it is true.

One of my feminist crossnesses is that the people who do not work outside the house, mostly especially women, get described as not having a job. Well, it’s a job. It might not be commuting, and nine to five, and involve secretaries and meetings and conference calls, but it seems to me being a good parent demands being a major-domo, a shrink, a nurse, a cook, a cleaner, a washer and wiper, a driver, and a planner.

I know it’s a choice; I know it’s a joy. Those small people give you rewards of the heart which you would never get from a boss. But it’s work, all the same. Sometimes I think there should be a red carpet for the parents, an Oscar ceremony for the fathers and mothers. There should be a glittering night when a crowd gathers to pay tribute to those who are raising the next generation. It’s a huge thing; respect should be paid.

 

The photographs today are very odd indeed. There was no time to take the camera outside, and it was a rotten old day anyway. But I made the mistake of mentioning my new hair a couple of days ago, and some of the Dear Readers requested a viewing. At first I thought: oh no, I can't put up my silly old face.  Also, I rather like the anonymity of this blog; you know my name, but mostly you do not see me. There is a sort of safety in that: the bad hair days and mornings when I wake up with cross, puffy eyes are not recorded. I freely admit it's a bit of vanity thing; and I do like the idea of my words speaking for themselves.

Yet I find it oddly hard to refuse the Readers, because you are all so kind. So I took a couple of pictures, most abashed and feeling rather foolish. When I looked at them, they made me laugh, so here they are.

My expressions are rather mad because I took them myself in a looking glass in the Cousin's back hall. It's the thought process which I find funny, so that's why you are getting a series. I am angling the camera up, so you can't see it, and just pressing auto-focus, and hoping for the best.

So: slightly serious face:

Oh, hello, I'm Joyce Grenfell:

No, no, but remember to SMILE for the Dear Readers:

No, come on, proper big smile:

(That is what the cousins call my crazed Buddhist all creatures are wonderful smile.)

Now feeling like a complete idiot, because what am I actually doing?:

My lovely old hairdresser did do a good job, though, didn't he? He's been cutting that hair since it was blonde, which is a very long time ago indeed.

And now for a proper face:

She has no doubt at all that she was built for a close-up.

And finally: small housekeeping note. Because of the time thing, I am rudely not replying to your kind comments. I read and love them all. Forgive the omission.