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

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

No sleep last night, so my mind is absolutely buggered. I really do not know how new mothers do it. One occasional night of insomnia does for me completely.

I spend a quiet morning with my mare. I am absolutely fascinated by her shifting states of mind. There are people who will not buy a chestnut mare, especially one with three white socks. Mares are supposed to be moody and unpredictable and impossible to deal with when they come into season. I think this is pure sexism. I have never owned a mare before, but I have admired them from afar. The only mood I have ever seen the great Irish mare Quevega have, for instance, is sheer gutsiness and determination and romping delight as she storms up the Cheltenham hill.

I don’t think Red’s temperament is anything to do with her gender or her colour. Like all living creatures, she has quirks and feelings. Some days she is quite antic and frisky; other days she is dozy as an old dog. On one morning her stubborn streak will be on display; on another she is biddable and eager to please. She can be as haughty as a queen empress. Sometimes she does not want to be bothered at all. One evening last week she was actually quite cross that I woke her from a nice rest.

Today, she was pure affection. She buried her head in the crook of arm and rested it there, until she had got all the love she needed. When I left, she gave me a reproachful look over the gate, as if to say: leaving already?

Sometimes the Pigeon gives me the best beloved gaze. Sometimes when I stroke her, she gives a little teddy bear groan of profound pleasure.

The animal love: it’s absolutely blinding.

Then the Younger Niece arrived, so there was human love too. She laughs at every single one of my jokes. She is nineteen, and she is like a dancing ray of sunshine, and when people say they don’t know about the young people of today, I think: I do, and they are perfectly marvellous.

Out in the world, Leveson bashes on. Despite all my political geekery, I have lost interest in it entirely. This may just be post-book exhaustion. Although, politics continues to fascinate me on the other side of the pond. I grow more and more curious to find out what sort of a man Mitt Romney is. Almost no-one seems to know. (Although there is the terrible story about the dog. I know I obsess too much on dogs, but really. A man who puts his canine in a cage on the roof of his car and drives to Canada cannot be quite right.)

The weather continues grey and flat. I squint out at the dirty sky, wondering what we shall do should we ever see serious sun again. There shall certainly be some form of dance.

Not sure if any of this has made any sense. I am going to bed at seven tonight, like a very old lady, so there may be hope of coherence tomorrow.

 

Quick pictures:

Red’s view has gone crazy with gorse:

No wonder she loves to rest her gaze upon it.

The mare:

The Pigeon:

The hill:

Monday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I did not sleep last night, so am feeling most peculiar. I only get proper insomnia about once a month, but when it comes it comes in glorious technicolour.

My mother calls.

'Darling, your voice sounds strange,' she says.

'I did not sleep,' I say. 'I could not turn my brain off.'

'Oh,' she says, with a little sigh. 'Yes, your brain. I do worry about it.'

My sister calls.

'I was up all night worrying about the pelicans,' I say.

'Yes,' she says. 'There really is no limit to the things you worry about.'

I also had forty-seven brilliant ideas for the book in my night of sleeplessness, most of which have either fled, or seem very pedestrian and not at all funny or clever in the dull morning light.

In the end, I had to go back to bed and doze until eleven, which felt incredibly subversive, but was necessary for any kind of rational functioning.

Then, like a miracle, I got up, had a pot of coffee so thick you could stand a spoon in it, sharpened my wits, and bashed out 1600 words of the book, which is verging on the vulgar. Many of them will have to be cut or rewritten, but it satisfies my word count itch, which Sarah will tell you must be scratched.

Outside, the sky is bright white, and there is a low, persistent rain. A pair of oystercatchers are tripping about the lawn, singing wildly at each other. I wish I knew more about them. They have been silent for the last couple of weeks, but on Saturday they suddenly started up their song again. I think it might have something to do with their nesting cycle. Anyway, they look very bonny with their glossy black backs and their amber beaks, doing their little theatrical song and dance.

No pictures from my genius new camera today, on account of the weather, but here instead are two charming photographs from a new collection out of the British National Archives:

This is a shepherd with his dog on the Sussex Downs, taken some time between 1926 and 1942. I wish more people still wore hats like that.

This is the mouth of the River Dart, in Devon, from the same period. It's so beautiful, it's almost like abstract art. I love that there is not a human in it. It gives a timeless feeling of utter peace.

If you want to see the full collection, you can find it here.