Showshine Sunday
Arabella’s dainty mare Fizzy was lame on the morning of the show, but Pat lent her Joe the Thug to ride, so small Clyde was duly loaded into the trailer with big Joe and off they went. RPD had made his usual meticulous preparations for the journey with printed Multimap directions, hint-sheets, clue-cards and pony-mum in charge of navigating, so it is no surprise that we found ourselves hopelessly lost in the wilds of Worcestershire within minutes. 10 minutes to go till Clyde’s debut, with Pony-girl’s show boots and saddle sitting on the back seat!
I stopped to ask the way to Blade’s Hill but as usual the only person around was the village idiot – “It could be thissaway…” points to the left “… and then again, loike, it could be thattaway…” points to the right, so all I could do was reach for the mobile phone.
“J – we’re lost.”
Muffled, J relays this dismaying information to Arabella’s rather grand dad: “They say they’re lost.”
Distant rumble of wellbred voice: “Where are they? Have they gorn orf the road?”
“Arabella’s dad says where are you?”
“Well we don’t know exactly….”
“They don’t know where they are.”
An embarrassing start, but we finally rolled into Blade’s Hill with 5 minutes to spare. Wonders greeted our eyes! Smart riders in high-fashion gear, their horses clad in sparkling showrugs fresh from their wrappings, spotless travelboots in purple and black and gleaming coats that dazzled in the spring sunshine. Suddenly the back of Arabella’s trailer burst open and out staggered Clyde, lurching down the ramp, his legs wrapped untidily in raffleprize bandages over chunks of off-white sofa stuffing, his pale blue rug patched with streaks and splodges of brown. At that moment PG arrived around the corner in her drooping, oversized showjacket with her hat down over her eyes.
Alarmed, I hissed “Whyever didn’t we wash Clyde’s rug? There’s dung all over it!!”
“Daddy didn’t want it in the washing machine with his things.”
“Well we didn’t have to tell him did we?”
“Yes but last time he guessed when he found all that horsehair in his pants.”
Bless him, when unpeeled Clyde shone as bright as any pony there, his dark bay coat gleaming with Canter Showshine and pony-girl looked nearly like a real rider, tho she will have to stuff the jacket shoulders before the dressage show in May.
I have worn thin the Jill and her Pony books with endless rereads, so I know the way things usually go: impoverished young girl on small crap pony rescued from knackers’ yard amazes all by beating priceless pony superstars: this did not happen to us, but the day was every bit as special as we had ever dreamed. The tipping hoof that touched the pole and put them out of the jumpoff was unlucky, but PG didn’t forget the 12-jump course (to Pat’s relief: she was clutching my sleeve in her nerves and hissing ‘I’ve seen J forget which way to go over three jumps in the school’, which hardly helped my confidence), Clyde didn’t spook at the nasty filler which caused many a nervy pony to unseat its rider, and Arabella’s dad hinted at more trailerdates in the summer. Happy, happy day!
There was only one sour note: Back at the stables, Clyde sidled sheepishly out of the trailer with his ears flat back and a raw flesh-wound on his neck. Yes, dear Joe the Thug swaggered down the ramp with torn-off bits of Clyde hanging from his teeth. Since Clyde is ok we aren’t going to make a fuss, but oh, the shame of it! Clyde the Wimp!
I stopped to ask the way to Blade’s Hill but as usual the only person around was the village idiot – “It could be thissaway…” points to the left “… and then again, loike, it could be thattaway…” points to the right, so all I could do was reach for the mobile phone.
“J – we’re lost.”
Muffled, J relays this dismaying information to Arabella’s rather grand dad: “They say they’re lost.”
Distant rumble of wellbred voice: “Where are they? Have they gorn orf the road?”
“Arabella’s dad says where are you?”
“Well we don’t know exactly….”
“They don’t know where they are.”
An embarrassing start, but we finally rolled into Blade’s Hill with 5 minutes to spare. Wonders greeted our eyes! Smart riders in high-fashion gear, their horses clad in sparkling showrugs fresh from their wrappings, spotless travelboots in purple and black and gleaming coats that dazzled in the spring sunshine. Suddenly the back of Arabella’s trailer burst open and out staggered Clyde, lurching down the ramp, his legs wrapped untidily in raffleprize bandages over chunks of off-white sofa stuffing, his pale blue rug patched with streaks and splodges of brown. At that moment PG arrived around the corner in her drooping, oversized showjacket with her hat down over her eyes.
Alarmed, I hissed “Whyever didn’t we wash Clyde’s rug? There’s dung all over it!!”
“Daddy didn’t want it in the washing machine with his things.”
“Well we didn’t have to tell him did we?”
“Yes but last time he guessed when he found all that horsehair in his pants.”
Bless him, when unpeeled Clyde shone as bright as any pony there, his dark bay coat gleaming with Canter Showshine and pony-girl looked nearly like a real rider, tho she will have to stuff the jacket shoulders before the dressage show in May.
I have worn thin the Jill and her Pony books with endless rereads, so I know the way things usually go: impoverished young girl on small crap pony rescued from knackers’ yard amazes all by beating priceless pony superstars: this did not happen to us, but the day was every bit as special as we had ever dreamed. The tipping hoof that touched the pole and put them out of the jumpoff was unlucky, but PG didn’t forget the 12-jump course (to Pat’s relief: she was clutching my sleeve in her nerves and hissing ‘I’ve seen J forget which way to go over three jumps in the school’, which hardly helped my confidence), Clyde didn’t spook at the nasty filler which caused many a nervy pony to unseat its rider, and Arabella’s dad hinted at more trailerdates in the summer. Happy, happy day!
There was only one sour note: Back at the stables, Clyde sidled sheepishly out of the trailer with his ears flat back and a raw flesh-wound on his neck. Yes, dear Joe the Thug swaggered down the ramp with torn-off bits of Clyde hanging from his teeth. Since Clyde is ok we aren’t going to make a fuss, but oh, the shame of it! Clyde the Wimp!
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