Author's note: This is actually yesterday's blog. I stupidly pressed publish and then moved away from my computer, so I did not see the flashing error 403 message. As a result, this crucial piece of reportage lay unpublished all night long, whilst I blithely slept. I can only apologise for the crashing logistical error.
So, even though the blog says 10th of May, this is, in fact, the 9th.
Today I:
Did the horses. Gazed anxiously at the weather reports, trying to judge whether the equines would be warm enough without their rugs. Wrote approximately 1900 words. Did research. Saw my mother. Spoke to my brother. Watched the great-nephew gather eggs. Sent a long email to The Beloved Cousin. Had a blinding idea for a play, which is ironical, since I have absolutely no idea how to write a play. If I were brave enough, I would ring up my friend The Playwright and ask him. But that would be too gauche.
I ate the smoked mackerel paté, which was really rather good.
My favourite old gentleman arrives, having suddenly taken it into his head to mend my wall, which I had broken, by reversing very slowly into it whilst thinking of something quite else. It turns out that among his great talents is the ability to make a dry stone wall. I stand in awe and wonder as he makes good what was a crumbling mess. He is eighty-two years old and he fixes up that wall as if he were a man of forty. I run out of words for thank you.
I walk the dog and inspect the garden and contemplate what spring planting I should do. I read a book. I sneakily take half an hour to watch a couple of races from Chester and back two winners and have a little shout.
I go back up to the horses, for their evening check. I get some equine love, not quite as mystical and miraculous as last night, but still pretty good. I gaze at the blue hill and feel gratitude for the view.
Meanwhile, out in the real world, the Queen made her speech, and I did not hear a word of it. Normally, I would watch the whole thing like the political geek I am. At the moment, I am so intensely mired in book and horse that there is no space for anything else. I get little glimmers and hints of what is happening in the outside world from Twitter (very informative, despite what its detractors say) and snatches of the Today Programme. But just now, it is passing me by. I am letting the gaudy carnival swing on without me.
I feel a peculiar low level guilt, but it is quite restful in a way, not having to have a strong, well-formed opinion on every single matter at the exact moment it occurs. I start to understand what the apolitical people must feel like. I start to get a faint sense of the to hell with the whole shower brigade. I can’t ever be like that for long, because of the geekery, and also because of the Pankhursts. I figure that if women tied themselves to railings so I might have the vote, the least I can do is be engaged in affairs of state. It’s an absurd belief, but it’s my belief, and I am sticking to it.
The light is going now. I scan the sky, hoping for good news. The sky stares back at me, promising nothing. One day, I think, the warmth will come, and I can cast off my tweeds and shawls and feel the sun on my back.
Some very quick pictures for you, because it is late and I am tired:
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