Time. What time?
Where does the time go? It is half past nine at night and I still have two hours of work to do and I refused a perfectly lovely dinner invitation. I say this not in the spirit of complaint, but of mild self-reproach. I feel such a fool when I have to say no, as if I am a jejune student with an essay crisis. But then I spent the years from 1985 to 1988 in one long essay crisis, so I suppose it is encoded in muscle memory.
At least it was a day of wild production. I did HorseBack work, I met new people, I drove up into the hills and saw a mighty stallion at his crest and peak, I wrote 790 words of book and edited a bunch more. I walked the horse and the dog. (We do this together now, first thing, Red on one side, Stanley on the other; we beat the bounds, and then both equine and canine have a damn good pick of grass and I watch them and laugh and laugh.) I had interesting conversations. I am not sure that at the age of 46 I should be sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, bashing away at my laptop, with The The going at full blast. (In the evenings, I am allowed to write to music, as it is after hours.) I feel as if this is the kind of thing I did when I was eighteen.
But bugger it. Age is just a number.
Some quick pictures:
The duchess, asking where her breakfast is:
No, really, WHERE IS IT?:
HorseBack morning:
No hill; no Stanley the Dog; no Myfanwy the Pony. Although I did have a very nice bet yesterday on a glorious mare called Lady Myfanwy, who absolutely trotted up in a lovely hunter chase at Ludlow. First time since I was ten that I’ve backed a horse purely because of her name. It worked out rather well.
Sharper tomorrow, I promise.
