Going to the dogs
Still haven’t had my Musto jacket from Ebay. Nine times out of ten once the joy of whacking in that winning bid fades I am aghast at what I’ve bought, and this time’s no exception. Whyever did I think the size (Large) would be ok? All expensive clothes are oversized so that the rich feel oneupmanly petite and it will be enormous. One puff of breeze under the hem and I will inflate like a windsock, but do I ever learn? No. I have boxes full of unwise Ebay bargains, unpacked, glanced at once in horror and consigned to the loft. Still, my doubts about it are no reason for the seller to keep me waiting so long. Maybe it took off in transit and will next be seen in use at the Three Counties Show as a beige pavilion.
I could do with that jacket, though. Our pony-owning has got off to a damp start in more senses than one. Rain every day, and two abortive trips to the stable. My anxiety as a first-time livery owner has increased – it’s so hard for me to remember that I’m paying them. Yesterday we turned up at the yard to find no sign of Clyde, who had obviously been turned out in the fields. I had a nervous conference with pony-girl. “Are we allowed to bring him in?” “I think so… but...maybe we should ask…?” “How do you catch a pony, J?” “Well in my book it says… ‘stand at the gate with a carrot and call enticingly, hiding the headcollar behind your back.” “Yesssss….. and then what?” "'Your pony will come over to greet you’.”
This seemed unlikely to both of us..
“But…. maybe it’ll mess up their routine if we get him in now. Maybe he always goes out on Wednesday afternoons.” “Maybe you’re never allowed to ride them in the afternoons. “Shall we ask?” “It’s your pony, you ask.”
I’m not sure if it’s paranoia making me feel as if we’ve worn thin our welcome, or whether we’ve worn thin our welcome. What with the parade of ever more unsuitable trial horses we landed the stables with, our bumbling efforts in the lungeing pen and all our quavering questions about water buckets, this can never be discounted.
So off we slunk, whistling casually, hats and whips behind our backs as if a ride had been the last thing on our minds.
Once home I could see this was ridiculous but the trouble is, I’m a victim of my wobbly British backbone which insists I should never be a nuisance and apologise profusely if someone thumps me on the nose. But I’m not imagining everything. The advent calendar we bought for Clyde to hang on his tack peg so he can have one pony-treat per day through December is really very nice and the treats are packed with Bach Flower Remedies essential for a glossy coat and good pony karma, but it caused Pat to mutter darkly ‘you are turning into the owners from Hell.’
The government has banned hunting. People who enjoy hunting foxes and stags clearly have something a bit vicious about them however well-masked in pink coats and red-cheeked bonhomie, but this decision, coming hard on the heels of government frenzy about smoking, smacking the kids, and eating junk food, makes me feel like I want to leave the country on the next banana boat.
I could do with that jacket, though. Our pony-owning has got off to a damp start in more senses than one. Rain every day, and two abortive trips to the stable. My anxiety as a first-time livery owner has increased – it’s so hard for me to remember that I’m paying them. Yesterday we turned up at the yard to find no sign of Clyde, who had obviously been turned out in the fields. I had a nervous conference with pony-girl. “Are we allowed to bring him in?” “I think so… but...maybe we should ask…?” “How do you catch a pony, J?” “Well in my book it says… ‘stand at the gate with a carrot and call enticingly, hiding the headcollar behind your back.” “Yesssss….. and then what?” "'Your pony will come over to greet you’.”
This seemed unlikely to both of us..
“But…. maybe it’ll mess up their routine if we get him in now. Maybe he always goes out on Wednesday afternoons.” “Maybe you’re never allowed to ride them in the afternoons. “Shall we ask?” “It’s your pony, you ask.”
I’m not sure if it’s paranoia making me feel as if we’ve worn thin our welcome, or whether we’ve worn thin our welcome. What with the parade of ever more unsuitable trial horses we landed the stables with, our bumbling efforts in the lungeing pen and all our quavering questions about water buckets, this can never be discounted.
So off we slunk, whistling casually, hats and whips behind our backs as if a ride had been the last thing on our minds.
Once home I could see this was ridiculous but the trouble is, I’m a victim of my wobbly British backbone which insists I should never be a nuisance and apologise profusely if someone thumps me on the nose. But I’m not imagining everything. The advent calendar we bought for Clyde to hang on his tack peg so he can have one pony-treat per day through December is really very nice and the treats are packed with Bach Flower Remedies essential for a glossy coat and good pony karma, but it caused Pat to mutter darkly ‘you are turning into the owners from Hell.’
The government has banned hunting. People who enjoy hunting foxes and stags clearly have something a bit vicious about them however well-masked in pink coats and red-cheeked bonhomie, but this decision, coming hard on the heels of government frenzy about smoking, smacking the kids, and eating junk food, makes me feel like I want to leave the country on the next banana boat.
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