eau de thomas, mary, taz, ned, morrin, toby, spray and cee jay

Wedding anniversary. Seven years. We’ve been together eleven years since the 5th. So there are cards and gentle stuff. It’s a change time, so gentle is good: change of job for Gruff; change of stress pattern as mebbe cancer scare turns out to be water on the nad; change of jumper for me because I smell of pony.

That is, a change of jumper if I was a nice, honouring the anniversary by showering and smelling purty sort of wife. But I’m a cosy jumper, like the smell of pony, shower when I’m good and ready and start to itch sort of wife. Which is the best there is.

I’ve been volunteering at a local Riding For The Disabled school for a few weeks now. Molster and Ziggy have been going for a couple of months, paid lessons are provided for standard issue kids at the weekend to help cover costs, and we give a voluntary contribution for Zig’s. Molster likes the gentle, friendly, black Cee Jay, Zig – a little bugger for a little bugger – loves with admiration the obstreperous white ex show pony, Toby. He arrived as a loan, originally, whiter than white. After two weeks of rolling in almost vertical mud in almost vertical fields, they knew they could never get that colour back, so kept him.

Started the morning by grooming the biggest … when does a pony become a horse? Thomas must cross the line. Have heard he can nip a bit to search for treats, so treats have been banned. Also – ha - he likes to lean on you when you clean his hooves. However, he was a perfect gent: looked attentive as I rambled on with brush, currycomb and conversational monologue; lifted his soup plate hooves one at a time as requested, the better for me to pick out half a field of mud, leaves and horse shit; obliged me – as most do – with a long, companionable, hay top noted fart as I brushed the dust from his broad rump.

Then onto Mary, a piebald grandmother who can get depressed. The next largest. I whispered into her ear that she was Gruff’s favourite, but shhh, don’t tell.

And on along the ponies, brush and hoof pick, and dust clouds and filthy fetlocks, and oh those farts.

I rode Ned: slightly stiff of joints, honourable, not quick to trust, looks like Hitler. To the moustache. The first time up on a pony in over twenty years, and I’m proud to say I came off the right way. But, oh, the rising trot is a different animal these days. I don’t know what’s happened to my thigh muscles. Didn’t I used to have thigh muscles? Although not tenor lady material, I’m glad to be a lady with no water on the nad.