The Bread of Doom
Wednesday is the afternoon pony-girl gets off school to pursue ‘off-site games’. Such is PG’s loathing of team sports and regulation gym knickers, we had to pretend we had a pony a full year before we even thought about getting one, as owning a pony was the only acceptable excuse for being allowed off school unless you could produce a gym card or membership of the U18 England Hockey Squad.. By an odd coincidence, we now actually do have a pony, which only goes to show how wary you must be about lying through your teeth, as it will rebound on you viciously and extract a hideous toll.
Not that we are sorry that the Hand of Fate stepped in, oh no! we are devoted to our hairy beast. He may not be a thoroughbred like flighty Trop or a showstopper like Diamond, but he is about as trusty and bold a pony as it gets. Am considering ‘Braveheart’ for a showname, which I don’t think is too pretentious or a potential snigger-trigger in the way HoofPerfect or Jumpoff Joy would be.
Things are a little quiet in pony-land owing to the dark afternoons and the dreary days, but we visit the stables daily. Bolshy, Clyde’s loathed neighbour, has grown on me - he has such cheeky charm. He is only a baby in pony terms and his hooves keep getting muddled up. He’s not quite sure what his rider requires when she presses him on from his jerky trot, but eventually he’ll have a go at a canter, huffing and puffing and going up and down on the spot with his big feathery feet all tripping over one another. Quite a cutie-pie.
I made a chocolate cake the other day to a new recipe and it turned out the exact texture of a damp brown rubber pillow. The bread I made the same day was also a surprise. “Your dough will have more than doubled in size,” enthused the recipe, “and will need knocking lightly back with a firm hand.” My bread was not like that, and I took out of the oven disc after flat, dense disc. “Combat Bread,” Panikos nodded, recognisng it from my description, “for hurling underarm at people you don’t like much.” I guess the stars were wrong for cooking that day.
Not that we are sorry that the Hand of Fate stepped in, oh no! we are devoted to our hairy beast. He may not be a thoroughbred like flighty Trop or a showstopper like Diamond, but he is about as trusty and bold a pony as it gets. Am considering ‘Braveheart’ for a showname, which I don’t think is too pretentious or a potential snigger-trigger in the way HoofPerfect or Jumpoff Joy would be.
Things are a little quiet in pony-land owing to the dark afternoons and the dreary days, but we visit the stables daily. Bolshy, Clyde’s loathed neighbour, has grown on me - he has such cheeky charm. He is only a baby in pony terms and his hooves keep getting muddled up. He’s not quite sure what his rider requires when she presses him on from his jerky trot, but eventually he’ll have a go at a canter, huffing and puffing and going up and down on the spot with his big feathery feet all tripping over one another. Quite a cutie-pie.
I made a chocolate cake the other day to a new recipe and it turned out the exact texture of a damp brown rubber pillow. The bread I made the same day was also a surprise. “Your dough will have more than doubled in size,” enthused the recipe, “and will need knocking lightly back with a firm hand.” My bread was not like that, and I took out of the oven disc after flat, dense disc. “Combat Bread,” Panikos nodded, recognisng it from my description, “for hurling underarm at people you don’t like much.” I guess the stars were wrong for cooking that day.
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