Sticks and stones (2)…

The title proved to be prophetic in a way.

This morning’s timing got changed; I rang William at 08.00 and said I was still up for the session but was going to be late down to Hilltop.

He said they had a cancellation overnight and did I fancy a slot at 11.00.

Did I?

Is the pope a Catholic?

I jogged back in to the barn and broke the news to Vin.

He looked at me inscrutably over his haynet, paused mid-munch, thought complex equine thoughts then continued munching.

I fannied about the yard, had a hot chocolate, did a final run through the checklist and went to get Vin.

Getting Vin was incredibly tough.

I walked past his stable – no large orange-coloured head looking over the door at me.

I did a comedy double-take and walked right up to the door.

He was in.

Lying down.

Fast asleep.

And I mean fast asleep!

I’d already groomed him but Vin (bless!) had got down on to his knees, rolled over on to his side, curled his legs underneath him and fallen fast asleep.

In a pile of specially laid (oh yes, I have no doubt of this!) horse poo.

He had a green stable stain right up his belly, left side of his barrel and left shoulder.

I called him.

His body language said ‘La la la I’m not listening’.

He wasn’t.

He was actually fast asleep.

I walked up to his slightly snoring form, slipped the head collar on and started calling him.

He looked up at me as if I were out of my head, turned and rested his head on a foreleg and closed his eyes again.

Sue and Laura were wetting themselves.

I eventually got him to wake and with a little (lot) more coaxing got him to stagger to his feet.

By now I was running out of time so I just loaded him, closed the lorry up and at 10.10 we drove out of the yard and headed down the A38, M5, M50 and on to Ledbury.

We arrived in good time, I unloaded a very settled-looking boy and set about getting him ready.

His stable stain brushed out as did the bedding shreds that were still all over him.

With Vin tacked up and booted and his rider wearing the customary degree of protection I mounted up and hacked down to the start of the cross country course.

We were late starting our session (we being three females aged between late teens and mid-thirties), late because one horse in the earlier group had lots of problems and William doesn’t like to give up on anyone.

When our group started Vin’s initial canter-lengthening scared the living daylights out of me; he slipped straight in to racehorse mode and tried to tank away with me.

I brought him back to the pace I wanted and we established a smarter rhythm and began popping over the warm-up fences in a short-course.

William called on us to give a lead to one of the other competitors several times – I couldn’t decide if the horse or the rider was having the problems.

We soon moved to the next field and Vin was absolutely brilliant, confidently jumping tree-trunks, shark’s teeth, helsinki rails and railway sleepers – light in to dark, dark in to light; my nerves long since vanished, Vin and I working together as a determined team with an objective at every fence.

It was brilliant.

We were brilliant.

It didn’t last though; we didn’t approach one set of steps with sufficient impulsion and he clattered the first element with his near fore.

The blood was flowing pretty fast; he’d cut himself on the coronet band – a very small cut but I don’t take chances, our day out ended there.

Sarah (bless) walked back to the lorry with us to make sure we were ok; it was nice to have a little chat with her.

Vin seemed fine, I flushed the cut with eight gallons of water, inspected the wound then flushed it some more, just for good measure.

Then I gave him a bath; he loved that!

We loaded up and made our way home.

Back at the yard I flushed his cut some more, groomed him then turned him out, then I went and snuggled Beech before cleaning the lorry out, putting the tack away and parking the lorry in its bay.

And then I got in my car and drove home, as high as a kite on adrenaline – despite Vin’s little mishap.

A brilliant day!


… and words will never…

Sitting at my desk this afternoon.

My boss quietly walked up behind me, said “Hi” and sat down in the vacant chair.

Are you going to be ok with that thing we spoke about earlier?

I looked at her for a moment; she took my silence as an affirmative.

It’s a very tight timescale.”

I stared at her for another few seconds and then said, “Yarp.”

Her turn to sit silently and stare.

Obviously  not seen Hot Fuzz.

But inside I was peeing myself.



Sticks and stones…

I have these two horses…

They’re lovely boys, a couple of real characters – and look almost like a matched pair.

Beech has been with me for about eight years.

I bought him for meat money – to save a good-looking ex-racehorse from being turned in to dogfood.

Which is kind of ironic really because in temperament he’s very similar to a dog; he loves me to bits, follows me around the field, likes to play – we play ‘tag’, and ‘chase’.

He likes to go out for a hack around the countryside and likes to school – flatwork and a bit of jumping, likes a little cross-country for fun too; he’s given up competing now though.

I retrained him from being a mentalist racehorse in to being a steady, controlled Eventer – and we had a couple of good seasons in the sport.

So he’s semi-retired now.

And on three legs.

Because a couple of weeks ago he got kicked by his companion; it wasn’t malicious and these accidents sometimes happen.


The vet rang me last night – 21.35!

She’d just had a set of x-rays developed and guess who is now showing a fracture in his leg?

Well OK, it’s not me so it must be…



So my poor boy is being forced to stay in during the grass peak months; at a time when he should be shovelling weight on he’s actually shedding it.

Dropping weight because he doesn’t like being ‘in’, doesn’t understand why everyone else is out 24/7 and he’s stuck in jail with no chance of parole.


We hope that the special Robert Jones (no relation) dressing he’s wearing, together with his enforced incarcaration,  will allow the bone to knit.

If it does then in a couple of months he can begin to be introduced to the great outdoors in a controlled way.

If it doesn’t knit…

I don’t want to think about that right now.


Anyway the other half of the bookend twins is Vin.

Vin’s much younger, half Beech’s age, and because he’s a recent addition to the family he’s still going through training to get him from ‘nutter ex-racehorse’ to ‘sensible’ Eventer.

Yep, Vin’s another challenge.


He doesn’t have half as much character as Beech – but Beech, it must be said, is exceptionally full of un-horselike, very humanlike behaviours.

What Vin does have is native talent.

Vin could go far in theEventing world, he has effortless ability, tremendous physical scope and a natural sense of balance that would shame most other horses I’ve ever met.

The trouble is what Vin doesn’t have is…

Common sense.

See? It’s swings and roundabouts.

Beech has wheelbarrow-loads of common sense, little ability and almost no sense of balance.

Vin has ability and balance equal to 10 to the power of Mexico’s overdraft but slightly less than a thimblefull of common sense.



Anyway Vin and I are out training tomorrow; cross-country schooling at Hilltop, Ledbury in Herefordshire – with William, my trainer.

And I’m starting to cack it.

It’s 19.30 and I’m starting to poo myself over a thing that’s not even going to start until 09.00 tomorrow morning.

Of course there’s a lot to be done tomorrow morning before the really scary stuff begins; I have to struggle out of bed for a start!

Then do bathroom stuff, lurch around the kitchen making tea and eating breakfast, getting appropriately dressed and driving to the yard.

Once there I’ll start the lorry up, pull it out of the parking bay, get it ready, load Vin’s tack and water, check everything we’ll need are in the correct places and make sure the human and equine first aid kits are fully supplied.

Then I’ll fetch Vin out of the field, groom him, load him in to the lorry and set off down the M5.

I didn’t always get this nervous about jumping cross-country – I should explain.

I broke my leg about six years ago.

Well, when I say I broke my leg what I mean is I broke my knee.

And tore my antecruciate ligament, postcruciate ligament, medialcruciate ligament and vaporourised the miniscal cartilige from the kneecap.

That happened while I was going cross country – on another horse, neither Beech nor Vin; Ash, if you want the perp’s name.

And since then, every time I’m less than 24 hours away from either going cross country or from competing in a full-on One Day, Two Day or Three Day Event…

I cack myself.

Right now – 19.34 Friday evening – the butterflies in my tummy are doing a fair impression of The Red Arrows.

Look, I know it’s going to be fun.

I know the moment we’ve popped over the first practice fence I’ll forget the stress of it all, settle down in to the rhythm of the sport and Vin and I will, for the duration of the clinic, become one single organism with two hearts, two heads, one-and-a-bit brains and six legs.


And we’ll both love the experience.

But right now?

Right now he’s over there in his field noshing his head off…

And I’m cacking it.


Child’s play

Yesterday evening the lovely S was telling me about an American childrens pony club-type book she had started reading.

In a nutshell she’s disappointed.

It seems that the cover and the blurb were better reads than the content.


I say ‘unsurprisingly’because I’ve read many American childrens pony club-type books and without exception they’ve all been rubbish.

Perhaps I should say trash?

Two reasons.

Firstly the language.

Wilde was right when he said of the US and UK two nations divided by a common tongue.

The technical terminology in the two equine worlds is different; what should be obvious similarities, umm, aren’t.

The foreign language leaves this reader cold. Or out in the.

Secondly the writing.

It’s as if the Americans can’t write quality fiction for children.

This, I believe, is why the US in particular has gone Potter Mad when even the Harry Potter books aren’t brilliantly written.

So having finished speaking with the lovely S I went hard-disk mining.

Sure enough, tucked away in a dark, dingy and very dusty corner of my laptop I found a small file containing two complete short stories that I wrote for my daughter in November 2005.

I’ll admit that neither is award-winningly written but, in mitigation, they were hastily created for a noisily demanding, frighteningly bright (too bright!) eight-year-old.

The first story (little more than an introduction to the two main characters) is just over 200 words.

The second (the two friends go on a holiday and have fun) is around 1,200 words.

There’s a third but it’s unfinished.


Now I’ve found them…

What do I do next?

I ask this question because I’m so completely overburdened with all this free time I have don’t have.

Having one’s ego stroked

This isn’t vanity.

I know where my qualities are, and my physical appearance isn’t that place.


On Saturday evening S and I went shopping at Morrison’s in Bromsgrove.

Wow, what a couple of really wild, crazy kids we are, huh? Shopping at Morrison’s in Bromsgrove on a Saturday night?

How cool are we?

Not very, obviously.


S was wearing smart work clothes. I was wearing (naturally enough) a T-shirt, pair of jodhpurs and the almost ever-present wellies.

As S and I approached the door to the store (poet!) from one direction a mother and her 10-year-old daughter approached from the other, coming towards us.

The daughter checked me out.

I mean she stared full-on at my crotch.

Two things:

1. I don’t mind being checked out; it’s a vanity thing, I like having my ego stroked and being ogled in a favourable way is a hardcore case of ego-stroking.

2. I found it disturbing to be checked out by a 10-year-old girl. No, really! Disturbing! I’ve been told that wearing jodhpurs brings things to the fore (so to speak), and I’m kinda used to being checked out because of that.

But by a 10-year-old girl?



Dichotomy, dykeotomy…

To read or to write?  That is the question…

When the ‘staying awake in the evening’ gene kicks in (rare!) I usually read.

This gene is different to the ‘Hey look, it’s evening and you’re eating pizza/pasta/something peculiar you’ve cooked (delete as applicable), why the hell aren’t you reading something?’ gene that kicks in after work (frequently!).

I deal with the latter gene by reading; by reading anything I can put my hands on in the kitchen (because I’m too lazy to go upstairs to get a book).

I deal with the former by…

Well that’s it, you see; I’m not terribly sure how I deal with the former.

I have these massive compulsions to write (even rarer than rare!) and when they bite/strike/tickle my fancy (more appropriate deleting) the laptop comes out regardless of what’s on the clockface.

But lately the ‘right! I’m in bed now, don’t feel like sleeping in the least, so let’s get that copy of Suite Francaise that I’ve been stuck on page 16 for the last two weeks out and have a bloody good read’ gene seems to be broken.

Because, last night, no sooner had I flicked on Radcliffe & Maconie (BBC Radio 2’s excellent electronic evening entertainment) and picked up the aforementioned book than…

The alarm went off at 05.15.


Fallen asleep again.

Writing for the readership…

It’s appropriate to begin with this…

I’m struggling with a piece of work for a customer in London.

I have to write a service level agreement (SLA) which will form a contract between two parts of an organisation that are shifting towards a client/contractor split.

I’ve been given an SLA template – a copy of an existing document – to work from.

It sucks.

It’s one of the most badly written things I’ve ever seen – definitely the worst I’ve had to work with.

So why is it that it’s acceptable for business documentation to be poorly written?

Why do we have lower standards of reader-friendly copy when we pick up a business-related piece of prose?

Awww, c’mon!

It’s not really acceptable at all, is it?

Rise up friends, rise up and strike a blow for business literature (and probably business literacy!)

Burn those badly-worded reports; take out and bury those inartculate, illogically-written briefings.

Rewrite these things, use pith not verbosity by all means, but let’s turn them in to things that are – if not a joy – are at least easy to read!

Oh yes!