Boiling Bits and Ballet

We have just had what passes for a festive Easter Sunday lunch in the Merry household, which Reluctant-pony-dad and Pony-girl chose to celebrate with an exchange of vicious bickering across the table, criticising each other’s table manners, etc. “…and another thing - sit on that chair properly!” cried RPD – there is a way to sit on a chair properly, which only he knows. He was serving himself more turkey, with, I noticed, the tongs PG had been using less than an hour before to fish out Clyde’s bit which she boils in a saucepan every Sunday. I decided it was wisest to say nothing, but if RPD starts to sprout chestnuts on the inside of his knees we’ll know why.

We have been researching the very peculiar rule of attire for dressage shows, which has many complications such as: ties may be worn with tweed show jackets. However, blue or black show jackets are always worn with a stock and stock-pin. I suggested that ‘always worn’ must actually mean ‘have till now been worn’ and that we could be the first to set a new trend, but PG was not keen on this idea, saying that daring to enter a Dressage Show on a pony like Clyde was trendsetting enough for one day, so we are now hunting for stocks and tie-pins on Ebay. I have no idea what a stock is, but fear it will have a perplexing knack to the tying thereof. Clyde too must adhere to the rules, which are: white numnah, no martingale, and a bit of a certain type only, so we are looking to buy a hanging-cheek snaffle (don’t ask me, I haven’t a clue). We measured Clyde’s mouth and were aghast to find it was seven inches, a size no catalogue stocks, not even for eighteen-hand plough-pullers. How come our pony’s hayhole is 2 and a half inches more huge than any other equine in the land?

This reminds me of my days as a ballet-mum, privy to its own nonsensical dress code: white dress with pink sash for exams, powder-blue leotard in class, no knickers to spoil the body line (punishable by sharp blow with cane by vile old balletcrone) hair glued to the scalp with gel and buns pinned up like small hedgehogs on the baby-ballerinas’ heads.

But oh for those dainty ballet days! Those little satin-clad feet now clump around in hefty boots, her hands in size 7 gloves are calloused from wielding the Yard Prickle, and always a smudge of god-knows what on her nose. I will never marry her off to a rich man at this rate and will be doomed to pay for pony food forever!