Clearly the fish and chips across the road is where it's at - who'd have guessed. I popped in to ask the nice Polish man if he would mind taking a delivery for me. I also ordered a veggie burger, because it seems wrong to only ever come in to beg favours (he has taken my deliveries before, and once rescued me when I was locked in my flat having left the keys inside my car, but that's another story).
I got a free cup of tea and a great dollop of unexpected flirtation: I was propositioned by two men in quick succession. The nice Polish man is always attentive - much eye contact, flashing smiles and effusive "sooo nice to see you" - but super polite. The second, however, was brazenly persistent. "Hello you sexy", he said in broken, heavily accented English, accompanied by an intense stare. "Want to go out? You have boyfriend?" Rather startled, I thanked him for the offer but pointed out I actually have a husband. Undeterred, he offered: "Is no problem. You can have other husband."
Coo-er. Saying you are married sends most chaps spinning 180-degrees and quick march, but not this one. He took his chips and swung out the door, still blithely trying: "I give you my number? We have drink?"
As I waited for my veggie burger I couldn't help wondering - lovely though it is to be asked - if perhaps the Ocean Blue of Datchet it is not really a takeaway after all, but some kind of covert dating agency, or worse. It would be ungracious to discuss the calibre of the suitors, but if you are open to options, I say to all the single ladies: give it a whirl. It does wonders for one's self-esteem, if nothing else - and the chips are fantastic, too.
When my food arrived, the nice Polish man asked: "You want sauce with that?" I think I've already had plenty, thanks :)
Friday 23 November 2012
Sunday 29 July 2012
Musings on my side saddle season
Like many bold ventures, this one started around a kitchen table and involved a bottle of wine and late night conversation. During which my Impossibly Stylish Side Saddle Friend kindly offered me the loan of her horse, Bud, to take hunting while she was away skiing. "Oh and by the way, you might as well borrow my habit and go sideways, as you've been having lessons". This was back at the start of the season, and January 25 felt like a comfortable way away, a reassuringly long stretch of time during which I would no doubt improve on my fledgling side saddle attempts and become fully proficient. Ha!
It seemed like a great idea at the time. Well, now that I and, more importantly, the horse, vintage saddle and habit, are all back in one piece, I can confirm it was a truly brilliant idea. But if you'd asked me the night before, while I was brushing the beautiful navy cutaway coat with shaking hands, I might have said otherwise. A bad case of the jitters and "why the hell did I agree to this", compounded by finding that said borrowed coat had hunt buttons on, to which I am not entitled. The friend I was staying with had a moment of Blue Peter brilliance and saved the day with invisible sellotape and black felt-tip pen.
Hacking to the meet, I dismissed a sense of impending doom with my usual big grin and banter, and decided to focus on keeping straight and balanced. My escort for the day, an assertive but friendly and no-nonsense pony club lady, just the sort you need by your side in a crisis, proved invaluable - finding clever short-cuts that kept us on decent ground and avoided unnecessary bursts of speed, while allowing us always to keep up.
My confidence was soaring, until someone pulled up alongside me and asked: "So, how long have you been doing side-saddle for?" It was only then I realised I'd had a grand total of four lessons, one disastrous but brief bucking episode in the school and one hack, making this only my seventh time sidewise, ever. Gulp. But people were overwhelmingly positive about it, we had a constant stream of visitors dropping to the back of the field to stare at this rarity, some of them doing a double-take before realising it was an impostor and not my Impossibly Stylish Side Saddle Friend, rightful owner of both horse and accoutrements. And I would explain that I'd come as her and taken over her life for a day, and very nice it was too. Someone started a rumour that I was even wearing her underwear, which I hasten to add is not true. And more to the point I stayed on, with a reasonable level of dignity and poise, I'd like to think.
I have since had three more outings of this sort. I got a little bit braver each time until it felt almost completely natural - I lost that awkward sense of being a cherry precariously perched atop a moving cake, and felt instead like the familiar action of riding. And I got to wear a variety of (borrowed) outfits: in addition to the heavyweight navy blue hunting habit below, there was a sage green tweed with matching waistcoat and, during the hot spell in late March, a lightweight grey cotton twill, made in 1929 for a lady emigrating to the colonies.
So, I shall remember the past season as my Lady-Mary-from-Downton moment (minus the unfortunate incident with the Turk).
It seemed like a great idea at the time. Well, now that I and, more importantly, the horse, vintage saddle and habit, are all back in one piece, I can confirm it was a truly brilliant idea. But if you'd asked me the night before, while I was brushing the beautiful navy cutaway coat with shaking hands, I might have said otherwise. A bad case of the jitters and "why the hell did I agree to this", compounded by finding that said borrowed coat had hunt buttons on, to which I am not entitled. The friend I was staying with had a moment of Blue Peter brilliance and saved the day with invisible sellotape and black felt-tip pen.
Hacking to the meet, I dismissed a sense of impending doom with my usual big grin and banter, and decided to focus on keeping straight and balanced. My escort for the day, an assertive but friendly and no-nonsense pony club lady, just the sort you need by your side in a crisis, proved invaluable - finding clever short-cuts that kept us on decent ground and avoided unnecessary bursts of speed, while allowing us always to keep up.
My confidence was soaring, until someone pulled up alongside me and asked: "So, how long have you been doing side-saddle for?" It was only then I realised I'd had a grand total of four lessons, one disastrous but brief bucking episode in the school and one hack, making this only my seventh time sidewise, ever. Gulp. But people were overwhelmingly positive about it, we had a constant stream of visitors dropping to the back of the field to stare at this rarity, some of them doing a double-take before realising it was an impostor and not my Impossibly Stylish Side Saddle Friend, rightful owner of both horse and accoutrements. And I would explain that I'd come as her and taken over her life for a day, and very nice it was too. Someone started a rumour that I was even wearing her underwear, which I hasten to add is not true. And more to the point I stayed on, with a reasonable level of dignity and poise, I'd like to think.
I have since had three more outings of this sort. I got a little bit braver each time until it felt almost completely natural - I lost that awkward sense of being a cherry precariously perched atop a moving cake, and felt instead like the familiar action of riding. And I got to wear a variety of (borrowed) outfits: in addition to the heavyweight navy blue hunting habit below, there was a sage green tweed with matching waistcoat and, during the hot spell in late March, a lightweight grey cotton twill, made in 1929 for a lady emigrating to the colonies.
So, I shall remember the past season as my Lady-Mary-from-Downton moment (minus the unfortunate incident with the Turk).
Thursday 5 January 2012
In the bleak midwinter...
It is that dreaded, bleached first week of the year. Mid-winter, foul weather, festivities over, nothing but bills to look forward to for a while. Contrary as ever, and having felt utterly depressed and bah-humbug for most of the holiday, right until today in fact, I am now buoyant with energy and fizz. (Oh, fizz, wish I could have some fizz... we're all supposed to be detoxing now, right?)
Yes, I have mildly resented the enforced jollity this year, and attended only a very select few social engagements during the festive season. The weather did not help: mild but damp and grey and not at all christmassy. Not that I really longed for last year's near-apocalyptic snowfall, but this was just too dull, and what to do with this winter's (faux) fur trend when you then suffocate in it?
I had a very last-minute invite to a black-tie dinner at Armoury House in the City. The main enticement (something that most well-adjusted people would consider vaguely offensive) was that I would be replacing a guest who couldn't make it. You see, this person happened to hold the title of Princess. Not anyone you would have read about in Hello, much more exciting and exclusive than that, a mysterious Russian Princess. So my place card would say "Princess"... you can see where this is going.
So it was, out of the jodhs and wellies and into a long, scarlet satin gown with a fishtail - ancient, a bit worn at the edges having survived a savage hunt ball, and from a predictable high street shop, but always a hit. And I was channelling 1907 emigree aristocracy in distress, after all. I managed a very impressive DIY up-do with a small, sparkly, vintage accessory that was reminiscent of a tiara without straying into fancy dress territory. Result! Princessy behaviour comes naturally, so the rest was a doddle. There was much dancing, and later we gatecrashed another party round the corner, where my non-prince husband was attending and my carriage, if I'd had one, would have turned into a pumpkin. The modern, post-feminst Cinderella keeps hold of her shoes and, on the stroke of midnight, acquires a husband and a clutch of drunken friends with whom to carry on partying. As ever, unplanned outings often turn out to be the most fun.
The Boxing Day meet, of course, is in a category of its own, and I would not have missed it for the world. In my third season now, this was my first mounted Boxing Day (last year was scuppered because of all the ice, hunting on foot is just not the same). I had to down several glasses of port (above my regulation medicinal two), so as not to think too much about the fact that this was my first outing on the Very Large Mare after The Tumbles. It did the trick, I was suitably relaxed and had a cracking day in which we did not part company. In spite of her being full of... shall we say, festive cheer. Well, one of us had to.
So everything is fine in my world again.
Yes, I have mildly resented the enforced jollity this year, and attended only a very select few social engagements during the festive season. The weather did not help: mild but damp and grey and not at all christmassy. Not that I really longed for last year's near-apocalyptic snowfall, but this was just too dull, and what to do with this winter's (faux) fur trend when you then suffocate in it?
I had a very last-minute invite to a black-tie dinner at Armoury House in the City. The main enticement (something that most well-adjusted people would consider vaguely offensive) was that I would be replacing a guest who couldn't make it. You see, this person happened to hold the title of Princess. Not anyone you would have read about in Hello, much more exciting and exclusive than that, a mysterious Russian Princess. So my place card would say "Princess"... you can see where this is going.
So it was, out of the jodhs and wellies and into a long, scarlet satin gown with a fishtail - ancient, a bit worn at the edges having survived a savage hunt ball, and from a predictable high street shop, but always a hit. And I was channelling 1907 emigree aristocracy in distress, after all. I managed a very impressive DIY up-do with a small, sparkly, vintage accessory that was reminiscent of a tiara without straying into fancy dress territory. Result! Princessy behaviour comes naturally, so the rest was a doddle. There was much dancing, and later we gatecrashed another party round the corner, where my non-prince husband was attending and my carriage, if I'd had one, would have turned into a pumpkin. The modern, post-feminst Cinderella keeps hold of her shoes and, on the stroke of midnight, acquires a husband and a clutch of drunken friends with whom to carry on partying. As ever, unplanned outings often turn out to be the most fun.
The Boxing Day meet, of course, is in a category of its own, and I would not have missed it for the world. In my third season now, this was my first mounted Boxing Day (last year was scuppered because of all the ice, hunting on foot is just not the same). I had to down several glasses of port (above my regulation medicinal two), so as not to think too much about the fact that this was my first outing on the Very Large Mare after The Tumbles. It did the trick, I was suitably relaxed and had a cracking day in which we did not part company. In spite of her being full of... shall we say, festive cheer. Well, one of us had to.
So everything is fine in my world again.
Friday 23 December 2011
The world has finally stopped spinning, with the aid of much bed rest, ibuprofen and brandy.
Reluctantly (because I am highly suspicious of doctors, having a particularly alarming example in the family) I dragged myself to the local surgery on my husband's insistence, because I was being "more incoherent and sleepy than usual". Where would we be without our loved ones, eh? I saw a young German lady GP-in-training who had not yet had her sense of compassion and interest in poorly people beaten out of her by years in the NHS. She was very nice, and looked genuinely shocked when I told her that, after tumble no.2, I then got on yet again and proceeded to hunt and jump for the next four hours, of which exploits I had only the blurriest of recollections. Apparently I should have gone home. Ooops.
I was diagnosed with mild concussion, a relief as it meant that a) the state of ditz will eventually pass, I am not going doolally just yet and b) I was allowed, in fact positively encouraged, to spend extra time in bed. Also, it is no mean consolation to find that my second tumble was quite probably the result of being concussed and still dizzy from my first, rather than 100% sheer incompetence. I shall be telling myself that when I'm next eyeing up a jump on the VLM.
Reluctantly (because I am highly suspicious of doctors, having a particularly alarming example in the family) I dragged myself to the local surgery on my husband's insistence, because I was being "more incoherent and sleepy than usual". Where would we be without our loved ones, eh? I saw a young German lady GP-in-training who had not yet had her sense of compassion and interest in poorly people beaten out of her by years in the NHS. She was very nice, and looked genuinely shocked when I told her that, after tumble no.2, I then got on yet again and proceeded to hunt and jump for the next four hours, of which exploits I had only the blurriest of recollections. Apparently I should have gone home. Ooops.
I was diagnosed with mild concussion, a relief as it meant that a) the state of ditz will eventually pass, I am not going doolally just yet and b) I was allowed, in fact positively encouraged, to spend extra time in bed. Also, it is no mean consolation to find that my second tumble was quite probably the result of being concussed and still dizzy from my first, rather than 100% sheer incompetence. I shall be telling myself that when I'm next eyeing up a jump on the VLM.
Thursday 8 December 2011
Too bruised to blog?
I certainly was when I got home last night. Severe bruising to the ego, in particular. My first outing with a different hunt on different country, a joint meet with the Kimblewick, did not exactly go as planned. We'd been going from strength to strength, the Very Large Mare and I, every outing this season a resounding joy and success, a lovely clear round at the last 3ft cross-country. One felt invincible. So we decided it was time to go visiting.
Yes, both the mare and I got there on time and looked sparklingly smart at the meet. Yes, she drew the usual compliments from passing strangers. But then things started to go awry. I spilled my port all over the saddle while dismounting to get rid of slippery mud on the soles of my boots. A bad omen? No, I thought, let's say it's for luck.
We moved off at a fast trot along a tarmac road, quite a novelty for me to be riding through a village on a hunting day. She bounced and cantered sideways, mostly, so I knew it was going to be a challenging day. As we turned into a field, I barely had time to admire the beautiful new scenery, and then there it was, the first jump of the day, a small log. Really I should have known better and allowed her time to settle and let off some steam before attempting a jump. Hindsight is a wonderfully useless thing. Instead I went for it, only to be jumped clean out of the saddle, landed on her neck and finished off with an indignant buck. She does not suffer fools gladly and made her point by galloping off, presumably in search of a better rider.
I was left burrowing in the mud for my stick and what remained of my dignity. It was not much. The staff sergeant who runs the yard (impossibly tall, a brilliant rider and always on top form, in sharp contrast to my disshevelled and humble predicament) dashed off and retrieved the mare for me. Not one to be deterred easily (this was my special day out after all) I scrambled on again, popped another small log, stayed on and felt the natural order of things had returned... The next fence was, well, large. And hedge-ish. We could have gone round (dear old hindsight again) but I thought I'd better go for it so as to recover my jumping nerve. She over-jumped what was already a considerable obstacle and I found myself searching for said nerve in the mud. There are no words to describe the sense of utter, utter incompetence, failure and shame. My usual question and beacon of guidance in a spot of bother, 'What Would Audrey Hepburn Do?' (WWAHD), did not shed any light. I literally wanted to dig a hole and bury myself in it, but reminded myself just in time to be careful what I wished for. This time I never found my stick.
And then I was offered that most humiliating of things, the one that (along with daft, avoidable falls) you'd like to think only happens to other people: a horse swap. It was the right thing to do, of course. This is how I came to spend my visiting day on Alfie the ex-pointer, instead of the Very Large Mare. What kept me going was that liberating feeling of knowing the worst has already happened, so what the hell. My hairnet was lost in combat and by this point I had a trail of unruly red hair and no means to control it. Someone said I looked like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean. I hope they meant Keira Knightley, but somehow I doubt it.
I sat out the first couple of fences while my head was still spinning, but after that we popped everything: rails, ditches, brush fences, the lot. Including some bristly enormities I would usually flinch at back home. The sun was shining, Alfie was flying smoothly along, and although scent was poor I felt privileged to be out in this lovely part of the world, on a handsome, mannerly thoroughbred. His only misdemeanour was getting upset when having to stand still, all hemmed in, in a lane. He plunged through the waiting field and past the master, who accepted my mumbled apologies and allowed me to take him off for a walk. I couldn't possibly sink any lower so I enjoyed the rest of the day enormously, knowing that nothing much would be expected of me now, anything above staying alive and in one piece with the horse being a bonus.
This I managed, and was cheered for staying till the bitter end. We all piled into Irish Joe's tiny kitchen for tea. Every hunt should have an amiable older Irishman with a red nose. We have one too. They have this knack to make you feel everything is fine. 'Are you the lady who fell off twice?', I was asked by all, not as a put-down but in a friendly spirit of camaraderie, born of the shared knowledge that it may well be your turn next time. And for some, it probably was the time before.
Today is a day of rest, pills and (medicinal) booze. I have got off lightly, with nothing more than aches and pains. My first tumble out hunting, the thing I dreaded most, is now out of the way. Will I let this spoil one of the things in life I enjoy most? Certainly not, but it may be some time before we feel buoyant and invincible again. The quest for elegance, grace and poise continues. Watch this (bedraggled) space!
Yes, both the mare and I got there on time and looked sparklingly smart at the meet. Yes, she drew the usual compliments from passing strangers. But then things started to go awry. I spilled my port all over the saddle while dismounting to get rid of slippery mud on the soles of my boots. A bad omen? No, I thought, let's say it's for luck.
We moved off at a fast trot along a tarmac road, quite a novelty for me to be riding through a village on a hunting day. She bounced and cantered sideways, mostly, so I knew it was going to be a challenging day. As we turned into a field, I barely had time to admire the beautiful new scenery, and then there it was, the first jump of the day, a small log. Really I should have known better and allowed her time to settle and let off some steam before attempting a jump. Hindsight is a wonderfully useless thing. Instead I went for it, only to be jumped clean out of the saddle, landed on her neck and finished off with an indignant buck. She does not suffer fools gladly and made her point by galloping off, presumably in search of a better rider.
I was left burrowing in the mud for my stick and what remained of my dignity. It was not much. The staff sergeant who runs the yard (impossibly tall, a brilliant rider and always on top form, in sharp contrast to my disshevelled and humble predicament) dashed off and retrieved the mare for me. Not one to be deterred easily (this was my special day out after all) I scrambled on again, popped another small log, stayed on and felt the natural order of things had returned... The next fence was, well, large. And hedge-ish. We could have gone round (dear old hindsight again) but I thought I'd better go for it so as to recover my jumping nerve. She over-jumped what was already a considerable obstacle and I found myself searching for said nerve in the mud. There are no words to describe the sense of utter, utter incompetence, failure and shame. My usual question and beacon of guidance in a spot of bother, 'What Would Audrey Hepburn Do?' (WWAHD), did not shed any light. I literally wanted to dig a hole and bury myself in it, but reminded myself just in time to be careful what I wished for. This time I never found my stick.
And then I was offered that most humiliating of things, the one that (along with daft, avoidable falls) you'd like to think only happens to other people: a horse swap. It was the right thing to do, of course. This is how I came to spend my visiting day on Alfie the ex-pointer, instead of the Very Large Mare. What kept me going was that liberating feeling of knowing the worst has already happened, so what the hell. My hairnet was lost in combat and by this point I had a trail of unruly red hair and no means to control it. Someone said I looked like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean. I hope they meant Keira Knightley, but somehow I doubt it.
I sat out the first couple of fences while my head was still spinning, but after that we popped everything: rails, ditches, brush fences, the lot. Including some bristly enormities I would usually flinch at back home. The sun was shining, Alfie was flying smoothly along, and although scent was poor I felt privileged to be out in this lovely part of the world, on a handsome, mannerly thoroughbred. His only misdemeanour was getting upset when having to stand still, all hemmed in, in a lane. He plunged through the waiting field and past the master, who accepted my mumbled apologies and allowed me to take him off for a walk. I couldn't possibly sink any lower so I enjoyed the rest of the day enormously, knowing that nothing much would be expected of me now, anything above staying alive and in one piece with the horse being a bonus.
This I managed, and was cheered for staying till the bitter end. We all piled into Irish Joe's tiny kitchen for tea. Every hunt should have an amiable older Irishman with a red nose. We have one too. They have this knack to make you feel everything is fine. 'Are you the lady who fell off twice?', I was asked by all, not as a put-down but in a friendly spirit of camaraderie, born of the shared knowledge that it may well be your turn next time. And for some, it probably was the time before.
Today is a day of rest, pills and (medicinal) booze. I have got off lightly, with nothing more than aches and pains. My first tumble out hunting, the thing I dreaded most, is now out of the way. Will I let this spoil one of the things in life I enjoy most? Certainly not, but it may be some time before we feel buoyant and invincible again. The quest for elegance, grace and poise continues. Watch this (bedraggled) space!
Monday 21 November 2011
Winter: the season to hunt or hibernate, not to get hitched!
Winter weddings: why do people do it? Oh, the fantasy of being a snow-queen bride in a white fur cape, snowflakes twinkling everywhere, and consummating the marriage in the flattering light of a fire.
But the truth is, for all but the starry-eyed, hypothermia-defying bride and groom, winter weddings are an utter bore, not least because they involve missing a Saturday's hunting. You'd have to put on a really good show to beat that, and let's face it, most weddings just can't compete. (Yes, I know, they are the only other occasion where it is socially acceptable to start drinking at 11am, but still.)
Think of the effort of pulling together a day outfit that will be smart and remotely on-trend while at the same time fending off the elements. Unlike most winter pursuits, where the correct attire is season-appropriate, weddings are inherently at odds with the cold. You are faced with a horrid dilemma. Wrap up too warm and you risk entering frump territory, not to mention suffocating in an overheated, crowded room. Keep it light and you will freeze to death in a chilly, damp church for what will feel like the longest 45 minutes of your life. And then carry on freezing outside said church while the lovebirds pose for posterity.
Add to this a long drive in fog or snow, and being holed up indoors with heaps of other people's friends, relatives and howling children, plus the pitfalls of choosing a gift, and you can see why I am not overly enthusiastic about brother-in-law's forthcoming nuptials. It gets worse: they are getting married in Wales, for heaven's sake (cue horizontal rain and certain footwear death in waterlogged ground). And I am trying to do all of the above on a shoestring - whilst not letting standards drop, obvs.- as I am now one of the nation's embarrassingly large number of young and qualified unemployed. And the meet I shall be reluctantly missing is a really cool one, with a barbeque afterwards. Grr doesn't begin to cover it.
The human mating season should be, as is the case for most other species, seasonal, restricted preferably to spring and summer. Is it really necessary to plight one's troth in the bleak midwinter? I can recall one wedding weekend on the Isle of Wight where the bridal party stood in a blizzard having their pictures taken, like a scene from Scott of the Antarctic, and the possibility that the return ferry might be cancelled hung ominously over the proceedings, jolly though they were.
Thinking of tying the knot? Spare a thought for your guests, be they hunting folk or not, and steer clear of the winter months. You never know, the British weather being what it is you may still get to wear that fur cape and have a cosy fire lit in your bridal suite.
But the truth is, for all but the starry-eyed, hypothermia-defying bride and groom, winter weddings are an utter bore, not least because they involve missing a Saturday's hunting. You'd have to put on a really good show to beat that, and let's face it, most weddings just can't compete. (Yes, I know, they are the only other occasion where it is socially acceptable to start drinking at 11am, but still.)
Think of the effort of pulling together a day outfit that will be smart and remotely on-trend while at the same time fending off the elements. Unlike most winter pursuits, where the correct attire is season-appropriate, weddings are inherently at odds with the cold. You are faced with a horrid dilemma. Wrap up too warm and you risk entering frump territory, not to mention suffocating in an overheated, crowded room. Keep it light and you will freeze to death in a chilly, damp church for what will feel like the longest 45 minutes of your life. And then carry on freezing outside said church while the lovebirds pose for posterity.
Add to this a long drive in fog or snow, and being holed up indoors with heaps of other people's friends, relatives and howling children, plus the pitfalls of choosing a gift, and you can see why I am not overly enthusiastic about brother-in-law's forthcoming nuptials. It gets worse: they are getting married in Wales, for heaven's sake (cue horizontal rain and certain footwear death in waterlogged ground). And I am trying to do all of the above on a shoestring - whilst not letting standards drop, obvs.- as I am now one of the nation's embarrassingly large number of young and qualified unemployed. And the meet I shall be reluctantly missing is a really cool one, with a barbeque afterwards. Grr doesn't begin to cover it.
The human mating season should be, as is the case for most other species, seasonal, restricted preferably to spring and summer. Is it really necessary to plight one's troth in the bleak midwinter? I can recall one wedding weekend on the Isle of Wight where the bridal party stood in a blizzard having their pictures taken, like a scene from Scott of the Antarctic, and the possibility that the return ferry might be cancelled hung ominously over the proceedings, jolly though they were.
Thinking of tying the knot? Spare a thought for your guests, be they hunting folk or not, and steer clear of the winter months. You never know, the British weather being what it is you may still get to wear that fur cape and have a cosy fire lit in your bridal suite.
Friday 18 November 2011
Feeding the multitudes
The hunting season proper has started, with a cracking opening meet. Were it not for that, I would very likely give in to the strong elemental urge to hibernate until Spring. Darkness falls far too early, there is finally a chill in the air, and the pull of sofa, blanket and bed is strong, especially as I am sniffling along sorrily with a bad cold. However: we are hosting on Saturday, so there has been much bustling and baking to do.
We have ordered no less than twenty bottles of port, on account of it being a joint meet and because we are still haunted by the memory of The Shortage. Two years ago, our first time as hosts, we seriously underestimated the drinking capacity of the small Wednesday crowd. When the port ran out (which happened all too soon) I panicked and started passing around glasses of raspberry juice, but seasoned drinkers are not easily fooled and the mood was turning ugly. Keen to avoid becoming unpopular or getting lynched in our very first season, Stephen performed a secular version of the miracle at Canaa: he disappeared in a cloud of dust and returned bearing reinforcements. Luckily the meet was conveniently close to a main road with a a shop.
Fast-forward two seasons and we are not taking any chances, especially as this time meet is a few miles off from the middle of chuffing nowhere. As well as the port, fifty pork pies, thirty-six sausage rolls and the same number of cheese and onion rolls arrived on my doorstep tomorrow last night - so as not to pollute my vegetarian fridge with dead piggy, the pies have spent the night in the car, ready for the journey. I have baked a banana loaf and a lemon drizzle. It has been a true test of character, having two perfectly nice cakes in my kitchen and resisting the temptation to do a "quality check".
Back to the opening meet, I was reunited with Geisha, the Very Large Mare from last season. A16hh2in Irish bright bay, aka The Pumpkin, she has spent the summer off games due to something obscure and unknown to veterinary science in her hind legs - which mysterious ailment has now vanished as weirdly as it first appeared. It came, I should add, a few days before what would have been our first one day event. Having looked forward and prepared for it for so long and at considerable expense, I was not to be defeated and insanely took the offer of a last-minute replacement, Alfie, 16hh3in thoroughbred bay gelding, having ridden him just the once. All things considered it could have gone a lot worse, when you think we'd hardly been introduced and his more recent sporting achievements were in the point-to-point track. Suffice to say we completed, not entirely without dignity and with only one minor injury (mine, a broken finger due to steering problems). We have since become firm friends and have been up to all sorts, including a few hunter trials, with one more to go this Sunday.
Which takes me back to the busy weekend ahead. Where on earth will I find the energy, riddled as I am with germs? The answer is: in the thrill and excitement of it all. Once out there the adrenaline will no doubt kick in, assisted by medicinal port, and if nothing else Geisha's early-morning enthusiasm is infectious and...um, invigorating. I must rise from my plague-bed and get going... onwards and upwards!
We have ordered no less than twenty bottles of port, on account of it being a joint meet and because we are still haunted by the memory of The Shortage. Two years ago, our first time as hosts, we seriously underestimated the drinking capacity of the small Wednesday crowd. When the port ran out (which happened all too soon) I panicked and started passing around glasses of raspberry juice, but seasoned drinkers are not easily fooled and the mood was turning ugly. Keen to avoid becoming unpopular or getting lynched in our very first season, Stephen performed a secular version of the miracle at Canaa: he disappeared in a cloud of dust and returned bearing reinforcements. Luckily the meet was conveniently close to a main road with a a shop.
Fast-forward two seasons and we are not taking any chances, especially as this time meet is a few miles off from the middle of chuffing nowhere. As well as the port, fifty pork pies, thirty-six sausage rolls and the same number of cheese and onion rolls arrived on my doorstep tomorrow last night - so as not to pollute my vegetarian fridge with dead piggy, the pies have spent the night in the car, ready for the journey. I have baked a banana loaf and a lemon drizzle. It has been a true test of character, having two perfectly nice cakes in my kitchen and resisting the temptation to do a "quality check".
Back to the opening meet, I was reunited with Geisha, the Very Large Mare from last season. A16hh2in Irish bright bay, aka The Pumpkin, she has spent the summer off games due to something obscure and unknown to veterinary science in her hind legs - which mysterious ailment has now vanished as weirdly as it first appeared. It came, I should add, a few days before what would have been our first one day event. Having looked forward and prepared for it for so long and at considerable expense, I was not to be defeated and insanely took the offer of a last-minute replacement, Alfie, 16hh3in thoroughbred bay gelding, having ridden him just the once. All things considered it could have gone a lot worse, when you think we'd hardly been introduced and his more recent sporting achievements were in the point-to-point track. Suffice to say we completed, not entirely without dignity and with only one minor injury (mine, a broken finger due to steering problems). We have since become firm friends and have been up to all sorts, including a few hunter trials, with one more to go this Sunday.
Which takes me back to the busy weekend ahead. Where on earth will I find the energy, riddled as I am with germs? The answer is: in the thrill and excitement of it all. Once out there the adrenaline will no doubt kick in, assisted by medicinal port, and if nothing else Geisha's early-morning enthusiasm is infectious and...um, invigorating. I must rise from my plague-bed and get going... onwards and upwards!
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