Brennig Jones (and friends)

Open University students will know that the acronym ‘TMA’ stands for ‘Tutor Marked Assignment’.

Anyone who’s read deeply of Arthur C Clarke (author of many SciFi classics and founding father of diverse sub-sets in the genre) will know that ‘TMA’ stands for Tycho Magnetic Anomaly.

Yeah, you do; you know what one is.

It’s caused by the large black obelisk discovered on the moon (in Tycho crater – get the naming convention now?) in the book, film (and T-shirt) ’2001: A Space Odyssey’ .

But back to the other kind…

TMA01 was presented to the OU this evening; it is an almost incisive, not terribly witty (I thought it might be best for the time being to hide the shallowness of my intellect and keep my sense of humour powder dry) examination of how the author of a lacklustre ‘set piece’ uses language to highlight and contrast scenes of an exceptionally moribund piece of naively packaged, anthropomorphic, idealistic, drearyism it’s been my misfortune to read since…

pause, itch, scratch, ponder, doze…

Well, a very long time.

It’s not badly written, as such.

Just boring.

And all of the other things above.

But it was fun, writing the essay. It was a challenge.

I’m looking forward to the next part – Art History.

Speaking as someone who would, if he had one, wear an ‘I Love Brian Sewell’ T-shirt and, also speaking as someone who thinks Gainsborough is the wittiest artist we’ve ever produced, I think I’m going to find Art History a bit of an uphill struggle too.

I have a tutorial next week.

I have to slog all the way in to Brum on Saturday for said tutorial.

Bearing in mind how mentally worn out I am by the time Saturday comes around, I’ll probably end up presenting myself in a slightly less favourable light than Eddy Grundy at parents evening.

Oh well.

They’ll just have to take as they find.

Alright Clarrieluv?

B.

I’m reading a new (to me) blog written by a person who works in a supermarket.

The writer chooses not to name either location or employer for fear of retribution and/or being on the receiving end of charges such as ‘bringing her employer in to disrepute’.

Which asks the question…

If this blogger is telling the truth, are they really guilty of bringing anyone in to disrepute?

Another question…

If that’s the case, is her employer (and any other organisation that chooses to use this heavy-handed defence) guilty of trying to stifle the truth?

The most celebrated case of an employer using the ‘disrepute’ argument to get shot of an anonymous blogger who was ‘discovered’ by her employer was Petite Anglaise who (up until that point) had written anonymously of her life, loves and work-times.

It’s worth noting that in the subsequent employment tribunal that adjudged Petite’s case the employer lost heavily because – it was decided – telling the truth can’t be disreputable; the disrepute lay where it was committed.

On the issue of an employer’s staff who are prone to blogging, there are a number of points that have to be widely accepted as fact:
1. staff will blog – whether they have something good to say or something bad
2. even if staff don’t have access to the internet at work (e.g. they work in the retail industry), they will blog from home

So wouldn’t it be better if employers became grown up and sensible about this aspect of the provision of information?

Surely an enlightened employer would provide staff with a workplace blog?

A progressive employer would surely give staff a public place where they could write under their own name, a place where staff could relate things in their world?

It could also be a place where an employer could read and learn and correct management and/or operational faults?

Wouldn’t that be great?

To use the internet as a means of receiving feedback from valued members of staff.

Unless, of course, management don’t value their staff and don’t want to hear from them?

Or don’t want to know what their employees think about them; don’t want to know how poor their management/operational practices are?

B.

My stomach feels as though it’s the size of a small Channel Island.

Just a small one, not Jersey or Guernsey.

Maybe Sark?

I must not be so generous in my cooking portions.

Ever again.

B.

The lovely sounds of Sigur Rós and some stunning views of the magical land of the ice and pixies.

B.

parental guidance warning, the following passage contains examples of extremely gratual laziness

The first bit of good news is that the OU essay is finished.

I did the breakfast in bed thing then later while The Lovely S showered then went to the gym, then collected my PO Box post then went shopping I…

Well, you know.

Umm…

Stayed in bed.

And worked on my essay!

I did, honest!

The Lovely S came back, I dragged myself out of bed, in to joddies and t-shirt then drove to the yard.

Christine and Young Laura were already there; I hauled Vinnie out of the field, groomed him then loaded his tack in the lorry.

Arthur and Vinnie loaded well, settled down and we drove to Bissell Wood.

Once unloaded, tacked up and with Christine and I suited and booted in our XC armour we set off.

Two laps of the mini-XC with Arthur leading then without breaking our pace we cantered straight out on to the bigger track.

After two larger fences Vinnie took the lead – up until that point we had not been going well, he was desperate to overtake Arthur (racehorse mentality!) and I spent much of my time standing in the stirrups trying to hold him back.

But the minute he hit the front everything changed.

He sped up and we attacked each fence in a confidently aggressive way; I let him bowl on and adopted the much more normal cross-country riding position as we stormed around the course.

He was brilliant.

Even the dodgy-looking scary fences that caused us major problems last time flew underneath us as we stormed around the track at 30mph.

The bottom line is that we jumped everything (except the water which was being repaired and therefore out of commission); we were confident, positive and settled in to a proper balance and rhythm.

Back at the lorry I dismounted, untacked, groomed and loved Vinnie up. I’m so pleased with him, he continues to improve; he’s brilliant.

This is the second bit of good news.

With Vinnie back in his field at the yard – thoroughly well groomed (again) – and wearing two sliced apples on the inside, the lorry mucked out, swept out and put away, tack put away, a load of washing in the yard washing machine, it was time to head home where I had an urgent date with…

The shower!

As soon as I got in I peeled off my soaked (sweat-soaked) joddies, socks, t-shirt and underwear and fell upstairs in to the bathroom.

Right now I’m scrubbed clean, sweetly-smelling and sitting on the couch watching Ant & Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway (I’m giggling).

I’m completely worn out.

Like, totally, dude.

The Lovely S has – while I’ve been out having fun with Vinnie – cleaned the house from top to bottom, done loads of washing and ironing and even now she’s in the kitchen cooking veggie Spag Bol because I’m too bushed to even stand.

But I’m still smirking.

B.

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday dear daughter

Happy birthday to you!

This evening’s phone call was fun.

The big present (from her mum) is a mobile phone.

Yay!

(I don’t know why I said ‘yay!’ there; it just seemed appropriate)

I love her and I miss her (I’m talking about my daughter here) and I know she’s the sharpest thing since very sharp things were invented but why oh why oh why has her mother bought her a mobile phone? She lives in an incredibly remote village in 19th Century Spain, ffs!

Well.

What do I know?

Not enough, obviously.

But happy birthday my not so little B.

Miss you.

B.

Yeah, sorry.

I’ve been busy as hell lately.

Work and horses and reading and writing – chiefly those – have meant I’ve been remiss in other areas and, I can see, have neglected looking after The Lovely S to the degree of care, attention and all-round nurturing that one as lovely as she deserves.

I’ll try and fix these things but time ebbs away from me as I reach for it.

And to complicate things further…

My OU course is hotting up.

This week’s mailing comprises two DVD’s, 18 CD’s and a stack of text books large enough to make Tom Cruise look tall (if he stood on them. Which he won’t because they’re my text books and I treat them better than that!). And the study calendar which seems to be dictating a punishing pace even for an avid Art-fiend like wot I am (to paraphrase the immortal Ernie Wise).

I’m supposed to hand assignment one in by next weekend but I’ve set myself the target of getting it off in the next two days instead. It’s an essay – an observational crit of excerpts of a work published in the early 1900s.

The trouble is – because the output is literary-focussed I can’t get out of author mode. I’ve edited the flippin’ thing about 32 times this week alone. I’ve now removed the smart comments about the author’s near-terminal use of aliteration. There remains a comment that includes the words ‘Disneyesque idealism’ but they’re germaine and valid so stuff ‘em, I’m leaving them in!

I’m supposed to be taking Vinnie cross-country schooling tomorrow afternoon – Bissell Wood again; Christine and Arthur have volunteered to accompany us. But we said, earlier in the week, that if the weather was too wet we wouldn’t go. Guess what? It’s going to be too wet. Probably.

Anyway, if Vinnie goes nicely tomorrow (if we go, that is), there’s a Hunter Trial at Bissell Wood a week Sunday that looks nice. If he doesn’t go nicely tomorrow I don’t have anything else lined up for next weekend. Saturday 13th there’s an unaffiliated dressage competition at Hartpury in Gloucestershire – that looks interesting.

The following day The Lovely S is off gliding again.

The Sunday after – 21st – there’s another dressage competition at Allenshill, on 28th there’s a Combined Training back at Allenshill and on 3rd there’s another dressage competition at Hartpury.

Around these weekend events I have to fit reading, writing, OU-work, The Lovely S and whatever else we decide to do (which may well include a small amount of time working on 9-5 stuff at home too).

It’s busy.

And my guest blogger (yes, I’m looking at you!) after submitting her very interesting view on life has now emailed to tell me she’s too busy to contribute any more right now.

She’s too busy?!

Ha!

B.

My friend Dick and I were having a discussion about Facebook.

We’ve decided.

It sucks.

He said, “It’s really awful, adds nothing of value. It blows.”

I said, “No, it sucks Dick.”

So there.

B.

Because Dawn and Graham have moved to Cheshire (taking their horses, natch), as of the end of this month there are two vacancies at Beech and Vinnie’s livery yard which is located on the Kidderminster/Droitwich road in Worcestershire.

The yard is professionally run by a full-time yard manager.

Amongst the many first-class facilities the yard offers are:

* large rubber & sand floodlit arena with showjumps

* horsewalker

* post and rail paddocks

* extra-secure tack room

* dexion shelved rug storage racks

* trailer and lorry parking

* paddock-cleaning by ‘sweeper’

* off-road riding and quiet local lanes for hacking

* easy road access (A449, A38, M5)

* local competition centres less than an hour away

* washing machine

* home-grown hay, straw and haylage

It’s a lovely yard, beautifully maintained and very professionally run by Sue who is an able yard manager. It’s a quiet place, with a nice comfortable kitchen for.

There are no children (a 14-year-old girl doesn’t count!).

If you’re interested, drop me a line.

B.

I hate schooling horses on a winter weekday evening because…

Dusk is beginning to settle as I pull in to the yard, the sun dipping down towards the green horizon. A handful of small clouds scud quickly across the darkening sky.

I get out of the car and I’m instantly breathless, battered by the wind and knifed by the cold – the warm isolation of my glass and steel cocoon has left me completely unprepared for the winteriness outside.

I’m dreading this. I could have driven straight home; I could be sitting on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate beside me as I watch The Simpsons. Instead I’m at the yard freezing my knackers off and feeling unmotivated about it all.

I force myself to grab my riding clothes, unlock the living accommodation in the lorry and get changed; it’s bitterly freezing as I totter about on alternate legs, pulling on my joddies and then my t-shirt. I put my suit trousers and shirt in the boot of the car and rummage about and successfully find an old fleece which gives a small amount of protection from the cold.

No-one wants to stand around and chat – that’s how cold it is – and that’s my prevarications gone. I zip up my fleece, pick up Vin’s head collar and slouch my way down to his field.

_______________________________________________ 

I love schooling horses on a winter weekday evening because…

As I approach the field he sees me coming. In his very best nonchalant manner he creeps towards the gate, pausing to put his head down for a quick munch every three or four paces.

I walk in and call his name; he stops eating, pauses to look over his shoulder at the rest of the herd then fixes me with a stare and walks straight to me.

I slip him a couple of apple slices and put his head collar on while he contemplates whether he was too easily caught. I stroke his head, rub his neck and tell him how handsome he looks today. He knows this.

We walk out of the field, up the track and in to the washdown bay where I tether him while I groom. He loves being groomed; it doesn’t take much effort to get what little dried mud there is off him; when I do his head he lowers his neck to make it easy for me to get between his ears with the brush. He goes slightly floppy when I groom him there. I can almost hear him make the Homer Simpson ‘uhhghhhhg’ noise.

I tack up, we walk down towards the arena; it’s almost dark, the arena floodlights throw strange shadows on the surface. It’s desperately cold. I mount up and we begin working in.

And he goes like a Prix St Georges dressage horse warming up for his test at the Olympics. He doesn’t go on legs, tonight he has springs.

We ping along the surface, his neck is high, he’s bent in to an outline on very little contact and I can feel his hocks swinging underneath me as we change bend and direction. His transitions are breathtaking – so good that two onlookers brave the cold, lean on the arena post-and-rail for a few minutes as they watch us. We cover the ground with such balance and elegance that it’s difficult for me to believe this is us. Our centre of gravity and position in combined balance is so perfect that I feel like a champion… I feel absolutely perfect.

After forty minutes of schooling we wind to a planned close. Neither of us feels the chill in the air, we’re both breathing slightly hard, both slightly sweaty. I dismount and loosen the girth, his eyes are bright and shining and already he’s stopped puffing. There’s a thin trace of sweat beneath his loosened girth strap. Our shadows are thrown out hugely by the floodlights, the world outside the glare is pitch black, I can see our breath on the beams of brightness.

Back at the washdown bay a quick groom followed by more sliced apple and he stands at his tether looking brilliant – he fills the eye like a true champion. I rug him up against the oncoming chilly night, walk him back to his field and feed more apple as we go. In his field he has two last slices as I slip the head collar off, he takes a last look at me, I pat his rump, he walks, trots and then canters over to the herd. Once amongst his friends he puts his head down and grazes.

I watch for five minutes, impervious to the chill then walk back to stables, hang his head collar, lock the tackroom and make myself a hot chocolate in the kitchen where I sit, drink and read an equestrian magazine. I feel complete, I feel relaxed and above all… I still feel warm.

Before I get in the car I walk around the yard in the near total darkness, making sure everything is put away or locked away. I stand out in the car park and look at the huge hunter’s moon as it hangs in the sky. It’s a fantastic evening. And I feel great.
B.