Getting There
The show jacket for pony-girl that I ordered from a bargain discount store has arrived, three weeks too late for the last Blade’s Hill mini-showjumping, but in plenty of time for the next (March 13th) and I am a great believer in Signs and Portents so that did it, it was time to stop mucking about and confront Pat. I had to psych myself up for this so I gave myself several motivation talks, walking round the house saying ‘I am a strong, powerful woman! I can do it! I configure PCs, crush large gingernuts in the palm of my hand and laugh in the face of slight danger!’ This made me feel pretty big and strong so when I saw Pat coming out of the tackroom the other day I knew it was time to seize the moment like an Amazon. I marched purposefully towards her ‘I am a strong, powerful woman! I am a….’
“Pat,” I whispered.
Not a good beginning but I finally got it out after a few false, squeaking starts, aided and encouraged by Pat, who took me by the headcollar so to speak and led me firmly through the water. Yes, she thinks it’s a great idea for Clyde and pony-girl to go showjumping. Leave it with her and she will see what she can do. Can't manage next Sunday but in April she will take us herself, or we can go with her proteges Arabella and her mare Fizzy, who aren’t ready to go this time round, Fizzy living up to her name way too much and needing a bit more of the Pat treatment before she can reliably be put to a jump without ending up 3 counties away.
The other day Pat put up a spread, a cross with a high back pole for all the pupils in the lesson to jump. That is, 4 classy thoroughbreds with long spidery legs, two ex-racehorses used to soaring over Becher’s Brook, a large beefy cob muscled like a navvy, and one small thin brown pony with a stub at each corner. Not that Clyde seemed to realise his disadvantage; he zoomed round the corner, galloping thunderously down the course towards the jump, teeth gritted: “He can’t jump that, Pat!” Pony-girl shrieked, whisking past in a blur, “It’s higher than his chest… aaarrrghhhh!”
Too late - Clyde was already launching himself into flight, landing squarely on the other side and skipping nonchalantly back to the others with a jaunty whisk of his tail while PG, stirrupless, jibbered and clung to his neck. “So, Clyde couldn’t do it?” cried Pat in scorn, “Clyde didn’t even see it!”
Meanwhile Clyde was high-fiving muzzles with Tilly the cob: “What’s my one doing up there, Tils?”
“’er left leg’s flappin’ about a bit, Clyde. She’s lost that clanky thing wot bangs on your sides.”
“And did you see that,Tils? She tried to swerve out the side at the last minute!”
“Got her over it though didn’t you? Well ridden my son, well ridden!”
“Blimey Tils, when Pat said ’go on, have her Clyde, she’s green but you can bring her on a bit’, what was she landing me wiv, eh? “
“Never mind Clyde, you got a better rug than wot you used to ‘ave.“
It’s all down to Pat. I have always admired Pat, whom no man, woman child or beast dare defy, but who can coax brilliant performances from the shabbiest pony and the shakiest rider. And from the wimpiest, most hopeless pony-mum who ever lived, too.
I did it! We’re getting there! We’re going to a show!
“Pat,” I whispered.
Not a good beginning but I finally got it out after a few false, squeaking starts, aided and encouraged by Pat, who took me by the headcollar so to speak and led me firmly through the water. Yes, she thinks it’s a great idea for Clyde and pony-girl to go showjumping. Leave it with her and she will see what she can do. Can't manage next Sunday but in April she will take us herself, or we can go with her proteges Arabella and her mare Fizzy, who aren’t ready to go this time round, Fizzy living up to her name way too much and needing a bit more of the Pat treatment before she can reliably be put to a jump without ending up 3 counties away.
The other day Pat put up a spread, a cross with a high back pole for all the pupils in the lesson to jump. That is, 4 classy thoroughbreds with long spidery legs, two ex-racehorses used to soaring over Becher’s Brook, a large beefy cob muscled like a navvy, and one small thin brown pony with a stub at each corner. Not that Clyde seemed to realise his disadvantage; he zoomed round the corner, galloping thunderously down the course towards the jump, teeth gritted: “He can’t jump that, Pat!” Pony-girl shrieked, whisking past in a blur, “It’s higher than his chest… aaarrrghhhh!”
Too late - Clyde was already launching himself into flight, landing squarely on the other side and skipping nonchalantly back to the others with a jaunty whisk of his tail while PG, stirrupless, jibbered and clung to his neck. “So, Clyde couldn’t do it?” cried Pat in scorn, “Clyde didn’t even see it!”
Meanwhile Clyde was high-fiving muzzles with Tilly the cob: “What’s my one doing up there, Tils?”
“’er left leg’s flappin’ about a bit, Clyde. She’s lost that clanky thing wot bangs on your sides.”
“And did you see that,Tils? She tried to swerve out the side at the last minute!”
“Got her over it though didn’t you? Well ridden my son, well ridden!”
“Blimey Tils, when Pat said ’go on, have her Clyde, she’s green but you can bring her on a bit’, what was she landing me wiv, eh? “
“Never mind Clyde, you got a better rug than wot you used to ‘ave.“
It’s all down to Pat. I have always admired Pat, whom no man, woman child or beast dare defy, but who can coax brilliant performances from the shabbiest pony and the shakiest rider. And from the wimpiest, most hopeless pony-mum who ever lived, too.
I did it! We’re getting there! We’re going to a show!
2 Comments:
At 12:38 AM, Heather said…
Yay!!! You're going to a show!!!
At 1:31 PM, Helen Raven said…
“Never mind Clyde, you got a better rug than wot you used to ‘ave.“
Genius. This is the best read I've found this year!
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