Tania Kindersley's Blog, page 53

There is a road.

Years ago, a friend and I sat down to write a screenplay together. That was the kind of thing we did in our bold twenties, when we did not understand how the world worked and the word no had little meaning for us. He was an actor and I was a novelist and we would write a brilliant film and make our fortunes and Working Title would be banging down our doors for more. That was the plan.

Of course the thing went absolutely nowhere, but we had a blast doing it, and we mostly sat in his tiny upstairs room in Peckham and laughed and laughed and laughed. I adored him, and still do, even though I now mostly see him on actual television. In the process, we invented lots of catchphrases and in-jokes, the origin of which I cannot remember. For some forgotten reason, the phrase ‘there is no road’ reduced us to hysterics. We repeated it to each other in sonorous voices and fell off our chairs. There must have been a context which made it funny, but I can’t recall it. Anyway, the line stuck in my head, and I can still hear it now, as if it were yesterday instead of twenty-five years ago.

Sometimes, there is no road is not so funny. Sometimes, I feel like I have run out of road, or crashed off it, or can’t find it in the dark. Once, I drove through Glenshee in a sudden snowstorm, and the road did literally disappear before my eyes. I at last realised what those odd metal poles were for. When everything is white, you have to navigate from pole to pole, and pray the engine does not seize up.

Three years ago, I lost the road. There were things beyond my control which induced a catastrophic career crash. I did not talk about it much or write about it here, because I didn’t want to whinge or complain or be a bore. It happens to everyone, one way or another. I was not special. It was emotionally and professionally difficult, and I had to grit my damn teeth and bugger on like I’d never buggered before.

That was what all the secret projects were about. I had to come back. I had to do something else. I had to produce. I was out of contract and on spec, almost as if I were starting all over again. The only advantage I had was that I now knew how to carry a tune. I could write a decent sentence at least; I knew how to craft a paragraph. But still, a whole book carried its old challenges. I’m fairly good at the prose side of things, but structure and tension and narrative and pace are as hard as they ever were.

On I bashed, hoping, hoping, fearing, dreading. What if it were all for nothing? What if it were no good? What if this new road was a mere figment?

I just spoke to my agent. Good, good, good. Both of the secret projects are a go. Bloody Thunderbirds are go. I now appear to be writing two books which she thinks are viable entities that may one day exist in the world. I cannot express to you what this feels like. It is terrifying and galvanising and liberating and almost unbelievable. (At least, I think, as I write these words, I have not grown jaded and blasé with age.) I have to work like a crazy person to my new deadline of the 15th September, and then, perhaps, with a little luck and the light coming in the right direction there may be a contract, and I shall be back.

There is a road.

A small meditation on words.

I don’t write about writing that much, here. I think about writing all the time, as much as I think about horsing, which is a lot. Every day I try to stretch myself, to pummel my mind to work better, extend my sinews to find a better rhythm, throw the language of Shakespeare and Milton up in the air and try to make it dance. Just as the good horsewoman knows that she will never live long enough to know all that she would love to know about the equine mind, so the good writer will never get to the bottom of learning everything there is to learn about prose.

Yesterday, I wrote that I had forgotten how to write a blog. Quite often, I forget how to write a novel. I have to go and read one, to remind myself. Oh, yes, I say, that’s how you get a character from one room to another.

In some ways, the hardest writing I do is a completely voluntary sort. I do not do it for money, or fame, or any material reward. It is not even done under my own name. I am, for all the right reasons, anonymous. It is a daily lesson in lack of vanity, although, because I am a flawed human, vanity does creep in, like a guilty lurcher after food.

It is the work I do for HorseBack. The men and women I see there tell me stories that I can hardly process, let alone translate into perfect sentences. I am in a constant state of astonishment, awe, admiration, and deep humility. To do them justice, I must draw on every writing skill I ever possessed, and every day, I come up a little short. That’s not quite it, I say to myself, ruefully. Nearly, but not quite right.

Those who have served are such a paradox, of wild courage, filthy humour, quiet stoicism, moments of hilarious braggadocio, deep wounds, and changed perspective, that I’m not sure even Shakespeare himself could quite capture them on the page. They are at once very ordinary and absolutely extraordinary, ultimately straightforward and unbelievably subtle, easily understood and entirely enigmatic. They even speak a different language, which only they really get. A civilian can gain the occasional peek behind the curtain, but it is only a fleeting glimpse.

Today, instead of my usual dash in and out, chasing time as always, I stopped for a while, and dropped my shoulders, and spent some easy time there. There was the usual mixture of unprintable jokes, merciless ribbing, shouting laughter, and sudden, grave, contemplative moments. One veteran showed me a long scar, up his back. ‘That’s from Sarajevo,’ he said.

Tone gets lost on the internet. It’s part of the reason that there are so many fights there. It’s really important to try and express the tone, of these stories. I’ve been told things, under old oak trees, under the benign gaze of these blue hills, which are so extreme, so beyond imagination, that I can never write them down. I’ve heard of things no human eye should have to see, and no human body should have to endure. Sometimes, when the story is a particularly lacerating one, I can feel the very atoms of my own body rearrange themselves, as if the mind alone cannot process the information, as if it goes straight to the viscera, as if the exploded stardust of which my physical self is made is being stirred up by mere words, the telling is so strong. And yet, these stories are related in a down-to-earth tone, as ordinary and expected as if it is no more than a trip to the shops. There is no drama, no show-boating, no look at me. The worse the story, the more matter-of-fact the voice.

I’m very wary of pride. It can slip too often into chauvinism or superiority or narcissism. But I felt proud twice today. The first instance was early in the morning, as the red mare and I did some beautiful things together, our bodies in perfect harmony, our minds melded across the species barrier, our hearts cantering in matching rhythms. I felt proud of her, and I felt proud of myself, for giving it the time, for persevering, for taking myself back to school, so that I could be a worthy human for this great horse. I’ll never be quite as marvellous and shining as she is, but I am close now to doing her justice. It makes me lift my head and feel a singing sense of accomplishment.

And the second time was when I came in and wrote up my HorseBack morning, and, for once, I almost nailed it. I did not wander on, or amplify too much, or use too many adjectives. For once, the words came, good and true, in the right order. I can’t take too much credit for this. There is a moment when you are in the zone, and it is almost as if you are taking dictation. If I believed in higher powers or other consciousnesses, I would say that I am a mere stenographer for the prose angels. Often, when it really works, it feels as if it is nothing to do with you. The sentences are coming from somewhere else. Write it down, write it down, I say to myself. Quickly, before it is gone.

All the same, I did feel a little bit proud. Nearly there; almost right; good enough. For once, good enough.

 

Just two quick pictures today, as I must get on. The first is from my HorseBack morning, and tells its own story. The second, which Icannot resist, is a shot of Red with the very groovy farrier. I rather hate the term horse whisperer (you do not whisper; you listen), but I do think the farrier is a bit whispery. Red adores her. The moment the farrier arrives, my beautiful mare breathes a sigh of relief, as if all is right with the world, and goes to sleep on her shoulder. It never gets old.

Link to my HorseBack post here, in case you are interested:

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And a final PS, which is to say thank you very much for the welcome back comments. I was really touched. You are very dear Dear Readers indeed.

Forgetting.

Today I: wrote 1466 words, walked the dog, rode the horse, had breakfast with my mother, completely forgot lunch, read about the anarchists of the late 19th century, and missed almost all the news.

I am out of the habit of the blog, and can’t remember how to write it. One of the points of a daily blog is that it works well as a wrist-loosening exercise, like doing arpeggios. Practise is vital for writing, no matter how long you have been doing it. Writing needs to live near the surface of muscle memory. If you take time off, even briefly, you grow creaky and tentative. The words no longer flow, as if someone has turned off the tap. The prose falls flat on the page, with no life or spirit in it. One may have a decent thought, but the fingers can no longer make the thought sing. Everything is low and blah.

I rode whilst I was away, on smart, tuned, professional horses, so I had to use all my muscles. Getting back on the red mare, I had no moment of adjustment. All the memory hummed in my body, so that each part knew exactly where to arrange itself without my having to think about it. There was only a vivid sense of coming home. After two weeks of real life and hardly any typing, my poor fingers can barely remember how to arrange themselves over the keyboard. The easy line between mind and hand is stretched and stuttering.

I thought about habits today, for another reason. I think that almost every habit of mind has to be practised, just as prose must be. Generosity of spirit, optimism, kindness, stoicism, determination – all the things I admire – do not just spring from some random character but have to be developed and remembered and renewed. This is my theory. I think the neuronal pathways have a sort of muscle memory of their own. I find this vastly soothing, because it means that with a little application, one may improve almost everything. I admit this is a little hello clouds, hello sky, but it pleases the sanguine part of me which likes to see the light in things.

I am so out of practise that I have no good ending to this. I can’t remember how to give you a nice concluding paragraph. I’ll be match-fit again in a couple of days. The lucky thing is that this small place is where imperfection lives. It is the amateur side of my writing, done entirely for love, not money. It allows for tangents and inconclusive thoughts and human flaws and intellectual frailty. It is not polished or shiny or trying to prove a point. I have no tap shoes here, no jazz hands. That sometimes feels rather terrifying, but it is liberating too. There is the sweet, unspoken contract, in between the lines of which runs the gentle knowledge that the Dear Readers will understand.

 

Here are some entirely random pictures for you:

Return.

Back from the south, and still struggling to catch up with all my work. The blog may continue spotty for a few days. It always takes me time to get back into my familiar rhythms, which is why I go away so seldom. (Well that, and getting crazy homesick for the red mare and Stanley the Dog and these eternal blue hills.)

No time for writing now, but I’m putting up a link to one of my HorseBack UK posts from this morning. It was a delight to be back among the veterans again. They never cease to leave me in a state of awe and wonder. They have seen so much and faced things I cannot imagine and remain so stoical and so funny through all the challenges thrown at them.

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10152502723240568.1073741955.197483570567&type=1

And two quick pictures of my glorious red girl. She excelled herself today – immaculate for the farrier, and then as relaxed and easy and loping as I’ve ever known her, on our ride. Even after sixteen days apart, I can still get her out of the field, leap on her back, and canter her across the wide green spaces in only a rope halter, and she is as kind and responsive as a dream. Clearly the dressage squirrels have been squirrelling away in my absence.

As I rode her bareback down to her paddock, feeling all that great thoroughbred power under me, I felt a passionate gratitude to have such a sweet and funny and mighty creature in my life. It is the dumbest of dumb luck. I may have been flirting with match-fit polo ponies down in the south, but, as I stand with the noble red head on my shoulder, and feel the gentle spirit which flows out of her like starlight, I think that nothing can come close to such a love as my heart holds for this mare.

I have quite a lot of rules for life. Mostly: be kind, and appreciate the small things, and keep buggering on. One of my most important is: never, ever take anything for granted. I don’t think I could take Red for granted if I tried, but every day I do thank the fates for bringing us together.

And I was quite proud of this HorseBack picture, from this morning. I am keenly aware of the limitations of my photography skills, and am an amateur in every sense, but sometimes I get lucky, and this was one of those moments:

This was a desensitising exercise. The lovely mare in the picture used to be quite spooky and reactive and sensitive. You can see from her ears that she is doubtful about the socking bit of plastic all over her back, but she is deciding to trust her human. I always find this kind of thing very touching.

And finally, for the Dear Reader who loves chickens, a rather splendid HorseBack fowl:

Caesura

Going off the blog for a bit. I am rather overwhelmed with work and then shall be away from my desk for a few days.

Back soon.

Sweetness

Author’s note:

I am overloaded today, so the blog is rushed. The prose is rather banal and flat, I’m afraid. But I wanted you to have something. Better tomorrow.

 

A very sweet family day yesterday, as my mother celebrated her 80th birthday. All four children were gathered, which does not happen very often, and the boat was truly and elegantly pushed out. My mum’s smile lit up the room. It was very touching.

As a result of the great birthday, I am behind on my work, and have been galloping about like a crazed thing, trying to fit in HorseBack and the book and the secret project, which may not have to be secret for much longer. It may in fact be a real project, with the stamp of approval from the agent herself. I am humming with terrified excitement. There is hardly time today for the blog, but I wanted to tell you one very quick story.

One of the things which gives me most joy is sponsoring puppies for Guide Dogs for the Blind. I currently have two excellent canines, Dudley and Olivia. Dudley is a very splendid fellow, a big, kind Labrador of ebony black. I’ve watched him go through his training, from novice puppy to full graduate. This morning, I got a letter telling me he was now a working guide dog, with a gentleman in Wales, and that their partnership has turned out to be a dazzling success. I must admit I felt as proud as if I had trained Dudley myself.

I am intensely moved by all manner of service dogs. Humans going into war or policework or the caring professions are impressive enough, but they have abstract thought and free will. The dogs have neither of those things, which makes the loyalty and dedication they show even more remarkable, in my eyes. That’s why I sponsor these puppies, as a small way of showing my admiration. It easily the most satisfying amount of pounds that I spend every month.

My own beautiful Stanley is not a service dog. He is a crazy rescue lurcher, wild as the wind, far too busy barking at bees, chasing rabbits and getting freaked out by bluebottles to concentrate on a higher calling. But every morning he does a little bit of service of his very own.

Each day, we go and have breakfast with the mother and the lovely stepfather. My mum has osteoporosis, a hideous ailment which leaves her in fairly constant pain. Anyone with daily pain knows how draining and debilitating it can be. Stanley the Dog absolutely loves her. Every morning, he bounds in, alive with the joys of spring, races round the house in a frenzy of delight, and then settles at my mother’s side with his chin on her knee and his eyes cast up adoringly at her face. Every morning, in his goofy, sweet way, he makes her smile. He may not be guiding the blind or sniffing out explosives in Afghanistan, but he still adds to the sum total of human happiness with his own private offering.

 

Today’s pictures:

Here is a tiny snapshot of Dudley in his new job. I’m afraid I could not make it any bigger. But you can see the goodness:

And here is my own little hero:

He does get a bit long-suffering when I make him pose for the camera. Along with the expression of nobility on his face, you can clearly see that he is thinking – how much longer is the old girl going to ponce about with that idiot contraption of hers?

And finally, it was a very splendid morning at HorseBack UK. We have with us wounded servicemen from 40 Commando, all at various stages in their recovery. I am generally very, very happy when surrounded by Marines. Even happier was the sight of Polly the Cob, who is both a rescue and a service horse, graduating to her first full ridden course. She was immaculate:

Friday.

All morning I think of the Normandy landings, as the voices of the old soldiers come on the radio, filled with humanity and grace. They are reticent and stoical. There is a sense that, even after seventy years, this is a hard thing for them to speak of. Theirs was a heroism that is impossible to put into words, and the debt they are owed can never be repaid.

Then the present world reasserts itself. The sun shines; the mare gleams and works beautifully, filling me with admiration and love. The Younger Brother is coming, all the way from Bali, where he lives. I see my sister, cycling along the side of the burn, smiling in the brightness. My mother tells an extraordinary story at breakfast about a jockey who kept a badger in the basement of the Ritz. We all ponder this for a moment. There are more questions than answers.

I get my work done at warp speed and give myself the afternoon at Epsom. My heart starts beating as I think of the beautiful, dancing fillies who will shine in The Oaks. Today, one of them will be crowned queen. I hope it is the gleaming, flying girl that is Marvellous. The race is quite soon after her mighty victory in Ireland, and she has never been tried over this distance, and the money is coming for the Dermot Weld filly. But I keep the faith. I would love the bold, bonny Madame Chiang to run her race, and she is my each-way shout. She is honest and taking and may not be quite the highest of the high class, but she will give her best.

Mostly, I shall watch them for the brilliance and the beauty. This is a race that is not for money, but for love.

It is not just for love of the dazzling thoroughbreds. It is because this year the race is run in the name of Sir Henry Cecil, whose loss is still keenly felt. He had a way with fillies, understanding them, bringing out their best. It was an elegant thing for Epsom to do, and at four o’clock this afternoon, everyone who loves racing will remember that great gentleman.

 

Today’s pictures:

Beauty and Truth.

This morning, in the misty, rainy field, I find the red mare and her Paint friend lying down, taking their ease like two old ladies. Red scrambles to her feet and does her Minnie the Moocher walk towards me, her head down, her ears gently pricked in greeting. Hey, she says, there you are. There are no operatics, no prancing or whinnying or snorting. It is just a contented horse, happy to see her human. My heart blossoms and blooms, like a flower in springtime.

Thoroughbreds are bred for speed and strength. They are all power. Even when Red is at her most relaxed, when I sit on her I can feel that mighty engine, humming underneath me. At the moment, she is still off games as her abscess heals. At the moment, I feel a different kind of power from her. It is the power of stillness, of authenticity, of a good mare at ease in her skin, of a living creature with a mighty spirit.

I go to do my HorseBack work. Today, this takes me to World Horse Welfare’s Belwade Farm. They are having an open day on Saturday, and the members of the HorseBack team are practising in the indoor school for the demonstration they will perform. Belwade rescues horses from lives of pain and neglect and abuse. As I arrive, I see one of the happiest sights I know – the green, wooded hills of the Dee Valley dotted with contented equines given a second chance at life.

One of their rescues was Polly the Cob. Her early existence was a nightmare of neglect, and she ended up brutally tangled in wire, which has left a deep scar on her hind leg. Belwade saved her and then sent her to HorseBack, where she has been learning her new job. She has come on so well that she has already worked on a couple of the leadership days, and soon she will take her place on the courses proper, with the veterans and servicemen and women who have suffered life-changing injury and Post-Traumatic Stress.

This morning, as she returned to Belwade to show off her new skills, she brought dazzling smiles to the people there who remembered her well. It was a very moving moment. I think she remembered them. I have a belief that horses have a very strong sense of humans trying to help them. (If the red mare ever gets a foot caught in a rope, she will stand perfectly still and look to me to come and untangle her, as if she holds a granite certainty that I am there to get her out of any mess.)

I did my usual cantering about, taking hundreds of pictures for the HorseBack archive. Polly was exemplary, standing like a statue as a tarpaulin was draped over her and a giant pilates ball bounced on her tremendous arse. She was vivid proof of the value of desensitising training.

She was proof of something else, too, just as the red mare is. Both horses, in their very different ways, bring me back to what is important. They are reminders of all the unflashy virtues – kindness, steadiness, reliability, gentleness. You can’t blag or bluster or cow a horse. It sees through phoniness with its eagle eye. Swagger and vanity and narcissism mean nothing to it. If you offer a horse patience and sympathy and a good heart, that half-ton flight animal will do anything for you. It will go with you to the ends of the earth.

This never ceases to amaze me. It never stops delighting me. The rain may fall, the news may be bad, the slings and arrows may come, along with all the sorrows that flesh is heir to, and yet there, in a quiet field, is my one true thing. If Red were a human, she would read Keats. She might misquote him slightly. Truth and beauty, she would say, nodding her wise head: that is all you know and all you need to know.

And, I might say back to her, the small things. Know the small things. Find loveliness and solace in the small things, and, however bleak the weather, the internal sunshine will break through the clouds.

At which point she would pause, snort, give me a look, and say: you’re going to start talking about love and trees again, aren’t you, you mad old hippy?

 

Today’s pictures:

Polly the Cob, this morning, with her old friends at Belwade:

And showing off her considerable tarpaulin skills:

Could any horse take a huge flying ball more in its stride?:

Little and Large, at Belwade:

The view looking south-west:

DONKEYS!!!!!:

Another southern view:

Misty hills to the east:

And, rather randomly, here is a chicken, for the Dear Reader who loves chickens. It is not my chicken, but it is, indubitably, a chicken:

The elegant ladies and their lambs:

Red the Mare, from a sunnier day:

Even Red is not this red, but I was having fun playing about with the contrasts:

Oh, that face:

Stan the Man. Love this rather contemplative expression. And the heart-breaking ears, of course:

Telegraphese

Insomnia. Wild, half-remembered dreams. Dazed morning head. Eggs for breakfast. Not enough coffee. A very sweet red mare. Work, work, work, work. HorseBack. Work, work, work. Should be cutting, instead put on 1280 new words. Half pleased, half furious. Need more ruthlessness. Forget lunch. Paltry attempts at admin. Followed by: idiotic and traditional admin screw-up. Close inspection of sell-by dates in the fridge. Dubious. Pause to admire handsome, comical face of Stanley the Dog. Contemplate making decision which must be made; swerve it. Time shoots past ears. Contemplate beating self up for perceived hopelessness; decide not to. WORK. High tea, on account of forgotten lunch. (Fried cods’ roe with olive oil and tomatoes. Old school.) Soft Scottish rain. Late afternoon field, green and still and secret. Two gentle, contented horses. Stop for first time since breakfast. Breathe. Smile. Remember the love.

 

Somewhere, in the middle of it all, this enchanting sight, of the lovely Stepfather, and his dog:

With added red mare, and sweet HorseBack horse:

Life lessons, from humans and equines.

I wake up thinking: bugger, bugger, bugger.

I have decided that I have got into bad habits with my horse and must go back to square one and start from the beginning. I have grown cocky, and lax. I have let things slide.

I am stern with myself. As if to set the thing in stone, I make this confession on a forum which practises this kind of horsemanship. I say that I understand that going back to Square One does not mean I have to wear the red badge of shame. All the same, secretly, I feel a tiny scarlet pin of mortification on my lapel.

I march down to the field this morning, fired with good resolutions. I shall take myself and the mare back to the start, and be strict and proper, and not allow those pesky bad habits to creep in. The horse looks slightly surprised, but goes with it. She is sound again after her horrid abscess and full of spring beans. I have a lovely free-school and do a delightful hooking on. She follows me round the field like a dopy old hound.

The Horse Talker arrives, and I bring Red up to the shed, and start mixing up her breakfast. With enthusiasm, I explain to the HT my new plan. It’s going to be high-end, full steam ahead, no messing, serious work. I shall be ruthless with myself. There will be no more sloppiness.

The Horse Talker, who is practical and wise, looks at me quizzically, and says: ‘Why?’

I explain that I was concerned that Red had spent Sunday with a bit of separation anxiety, as the little Paint was taken away on a great adventure to Glen Tanar. There had been some shouting, some staring, some scanning of the woods, some beady examination of the cows. (The red mare was clearly convinced that her filly had run away to join the cow circus.) Then, when her friend finally returned, Red had bawled her head off and pranced about like a Lipizzaner stallion, with her tail stuck straight in the air.

‘If I’d done the groundwork right,’ I said, ‘she would not have paid any mind.’

‘She was just a bit excited,’ said the Horse Talker, in a forgiving tone. There was a pause. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘you’ve got a really good horse.’

She looked at the red mare. The two humans were in the shed, with the big doors wide open. Red was standing at the entrance, where I had left her, watching me mix up her feed. We had been talking for ten minutes, and the mare had not moved a muscle. She was not tethered in any way.

‘Damn it,’ I said. ‘She is a really good horse. Am I trying to live a life, or prove a point?’

I always come back to this. Some of the time, I am ashamed to say, I am trying to prove a point. Look at me, look at me, tell me I done good. Give me strokes and thumbs-ups and rosettes and gold stars. Give me compliments, which I can hoard up against a long, cold winter.

I think of my dad, who did nothing for public consumption. He loved winning races and singing songs and making people laugh, but he did those things for their own sake, I think, rather than for acclamation. He did not know what to do with a compliment if one were given to him. He would put it in his pocket and shuffle his feet and buy you a drink and change the subject.

I think of writing, and all I know about it. Much of it is still a mystery to me. But I do know that you should never sit down to write a book because you want money or love or awards or good reviews or your name in the papers. You must write it for its own true self. You must write because you love language, and you want to tell stories, and you are curious about the human condition.

Authenticity, I think. Along with kindness and stoicism, authenticity is the virtue I admire the most.

Whether I am working a horse or writing a sentence, I do think it is important to pay attention to the small things. I do think it is vital to be rigorous. I do think one must be honest and humble and sometimes go back to the beginning. I think one must try to be better.

But the Horse Talker is right. The good question is why. Pointless lashing for lack of idiot perfection is tiring and useless. Context is queen. It’s not just what you do, but why you do it.

I want to work carefully and correctly with my mare, because this will give her a foundation of security. If she can trust her human, she will be happy. I want a happy horse. I want to write a good sentence because of the sheer, visceral joy of the dancing language on the page.

The rest is just jam.

 

Today’s pictures:

Are from the archive. I forgot to charge the camera battery:

As I finish this, I think of the craving for compliments that sometimes comes upon me. It is not a trait of which I am proud. I suppose it is fairly human, but when it roars in me, I generally think it a sign that something is not quite right. When one is easy in one’s own skin, one does not need outside validation. All the same, what is making me laugh now is that my best compliments are not always the obvious ones. Someone I admire said to me, not long ago, with a smile: ‘you are a slightly dotty lady who gets excited when she trots a horse round a field.’ For all that I occasionally think I want to model myself on AP McCoy or Mary King or William Fox-Pitt or Venetia Williams or the late, great Henry Cecil, those kind of people who have horses in their bones, who are at the absolute top of the tree, actually I’ll take that line and frame it in my heart. It makes me laugh. It is my best kind of compliment, mostly because it is true.