Interval
The sun shone down on the morning of the day of Blade’s Hill Showjumping. Pony-girl sang as she swept the stables with sweet generosity of spirit: “Good luck, Sally! Good luck, Kim! Good luck, every one of you! As I am not going to the show, I will sweep the barn and muck out all the stables, empty except for mine, for my pony will still be in it as he is not going to the show, and I will clear a space in the tackroom for the 42 rosettes you will be bringing back!”
Brave pony-girl! Brave Clyde, leaning forlornly over his stable door, watching luckier horses than he trot proudly past, dressed in full show regalia!
But who’s this? It is none other than Pat, striding into the barn: “Pony-girl! Did you really think we would leave you behind without a backwards look while we all went off to callously compete? Don your showjacket, tack up Braveheart and put him into Lady Carrington-Smythe’s 5-horse pantechnicon, you have earned your place at Blade’s Hill!”
Sigh,I have read too many Jill and her Pony books. Of course this did not happen, and we didn’t get to go to Blade’s Hill. Next one is in March: what favours can I reasonably do in this time to wheedle our way into a half-empty horsebox? Clyde is jumping courses like a little pony superstar, supersonically fast and going ‘Weeeeeeeeee!’ over anything up to 2’6”, PG is brimming with unusual confidence, we need to give them a chance at a show before PG’s nerve fails her again and before Clyde’s age catches up on him, his fetlocks crumble and his back gives way like a saggy old sofa.
We adore our Clydey beyond compare, and he truly is a superstar in his own common-milkcart-pony way, but that doesn’t stop us admiring Diamond, Mr Tallhat’s divine prancing steel-grey dressage horse. Shipped over from Spain a while back to adorn NagsR’us alongside Mr T’s other two fabulous eventers, one glimpse of that gorgeous dished face over the stable door in the Posh Barn is enough to turn PG and me dizzy with delight. “Oh mummy!” PG gasps, clutching at me, “If only I had a proper pony!” To which I reply, “we bought you a proper one, my darling girl, and you did not dare to mount it.” Which is true, as our Whisper was a mini-Diamond, prancing Arab perfection in miniature, and so scary to ride that PG turned pale with nerves and didn’t eat for a week. Which is why we have rough, tough urchin Clyde.
Pat was hanging onto Diamond’s leadrope today and called to PG: “Come ‘ere J and ‘ang on to this ‘orse while I fetch me whip!” Nearly fainting, PG took the leadrope - “’E might try it on a bit,” Pat added fondly, “but ‘e’s only a baby.” Any baby of 17 hands, feet the size of manhole covers and one ton of solid oat-packed weight is something not to be trifled with, but J had her moment of glory, trusted sole charge of the stable’s most valued prospect, a proper pony.
Brave pony-girl! Brave Clyde, leaning forlornly over his stable door, watching luckier horses than he trot proudly past, dressed in full show regalia!
But who’s this? It is none other than Pat, striding into the barn: “Pony-girl! Did you really think we would leave you behind without a backwards look while we all went off to callously compete? Don your showjacket, tack up Braveheart and put him into Lady Carrington-Smythe’s 5-horse pantechnicon, you have earned your place at Blade’s Hill!”
Sigh,I have read too many Jill and her Pony books. Of course this did not happen, and we didn’t get to go to Blade’s Hill. Next one is in March: what favours can I reasonably do in this time to wheedle our way into a half-empty horsebox? Clyde is jumping courses like a little pony superstar, supersonically fast and going ‘Weeeeeeeeee!’ over anything up to 2’6”, PG is brimming with unusual confidence, we need to give them a chance at a show before PG’s nerve fails her again and before Clyde’s age catches up on him, his fetlocks crumble and his back gives way like a saggy old sofa.
We adore our Clydey beyond compare, and he truly is a superstar in his own common-milkcart-pony way, but that doesn’t stop us admiring Diamond, Mr Tallhat’s divine prancing steel-grey dressage horse. Shipped over from Spain a while back to adorn NagsR’us alongside Mr T’s other two fabulous eventers, one glimpse of that gorgeous dished face over the stable door in the Posh Barn is enough to turn PG and me dizzy with delight. “Oh mummy!” PG gasps, clutching at me, “If only I had a proper pony!” To which I reply, “we bought you a proper one, my darling girl, and you did not dare to mount it.” Which is true, as our Whisper was a mini-Diamond, prancing Arab perfection in miniature, and so scary to ride that PG turned pale with nerves and didn’t eat for a week. Which is why we have rough, tough urchin Clyde.
Pat was hanging onto Diamond’s leadrope today and called to PG: “Come ‘ere J and ‘ang on to this ‘orse while I fetch me whip!” Nearly fainting, PG took the leadrope - “’E might try it on a bit,” Pat added fondly, “but ‘e’s only a baby.” Any baby of 17 hands, feet the size of manhole covers and one ton of solid oat-packed weight is something not to be trifled with, but J had her moment of glory, trusted sole charge of the stable’s most valued prospect, a proper pony.
2 Comments:
At 7:19 PM, Anonymous said…
So, did Pat say why she isn't taking you to the show?
Heather
www.spiritblog.net
At 7:35 PM, merry said…
Hard to know what went on there. Maybe Pat never got the note at all, since she never mentioned it even to say 'no' or'cheeky! find your own transport!'. It's more likely she doesn't consider it her job and never gave it a thought - it's not as if she exactly selects people formally for a NagsR'Us 'Team'.
Obviously I have to take the bull by the horns and mention it face to face, but I imagine the likely outcome is that we will be told 'yes, you can go as far as I'm concerned, but it's up to you to find someone to take you.'
Which is actually quite a problem as most people have either two horses, or no box, and I've been told that hiring one is VERY expensive, so not something one could do every month :(
Still our burning ambition to go though...
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