Make a Difference This Christmas

Last Christmas I had to give up and admit that I had not made my contribution on World Orgasm for Peace Day. For some reason 4 o’clock on 22nd December has been reserved for this purpose and surprisingly I had a million other things to do two days before Christmas. Unfortunately this year I failed again. Having just been dumped, and not a big fan of one-night afternoons, I surrendered to the fact that I wouldn’t be making a contribution to world peace this year either and left work early to do some Christmas shopping instead.

And that was when I realized that I just had to be a little bit creative. And no, I am not talking about peace orgasms, just of peace in general. With this year’s Nobel Peace Prize going to Al Gore and the UNPCC the Nobel Committee has created a new understanding of what leads to peace. Being environmental friendly. And those of us who haven’t the time or necessities to make an orgasm contribution have been given another chance to contribute to world peace that doesn’t involve sexual activities. What the Nobel Committee’s stand on peace orgasms is I am not quite sure…

But with this widening of the peace definition I can at least make my contribution through environmental friendly Christmas presents. And at the same time make up for the fact that I have a car, a small rainforest worth of books and magazines and like to keep my bedroom at a snug 22 degrees throughout the winter. Besides with the long distance boyfriend out of the equation I can get myself a much more environmental local version that I don’t have to get on a plane to see.

For a moment I considered buying some of these virtual goats from a humanitarian organization for the whole family, but then decided it was so last year. So in my desperate search for the ultimate climate present I ended up on the website of an organization called the Future in Our Hands. For the last ten years it has been promoting the Buy Nothing Day. This has only been a limited success as they have decided to set the date just before Christmas. If it was up to me I would have been a lot more realistic and put it to January or something when people have no money anyway.

This year they have also published a list of environmental friendly Christmas gifts. And right there in between the CO2 quotas and the studs for your bike tyres to make it winter proof I found the g-string. They are apparently very climate friendly. The argument being that the less cotton that is used the more environmental friendly it is.

One look in my underwear draw reveals that I have been environmental friendly all along. Sod the goats; I have made a difference after all.

And now I also know what to buy everyone this year. Very Happy Christmas!

Down and Out

And then the Stud Muffin was out of the equation. I won’t bore you with the details. But put this way: It was not my decision. I think it is called being dumped. Suddenly I know what they are all wailing about on the radio. So for now the radio remains turned off.

According to most of my friends, I am better off without him, but I suspect it is all an act to make me feel better. I think it is just considered the right thing to say, because somehow it doesn’t quite add up with how happy I was feeling when I was with him and how destroyed I am now. It certainly doesn’t help.

But then nothing does right now. I only pray that the other cliché I am repeatedly presented with is correct: Time heals all.

I am not holding my breath.

Live and Kicking

Normally when I hear about someone being kicked by a horse I sigh and express concern over how some people can be so careless. Unless it is serious enough to call for some real sympathy of course.

But that was before my very own little foal outmaneuvered me and kicked me in the chest the other day. Suddenly I belonged to my own category of careless idiots who should never be let near a horse.

And the trouble is that because the little foal is in fact not so little anymore, he managed to really wind me before he made his run for freedom. It is the first time I have been kicked that full on. Had it been a fully grown horse with shoes on I would most likely have been writing this from a hospital bed or up there.

As it happened I escaped with the experience of how unpleasant it is to not be able to breath and a small hoof shaped bruise on my chest.

Funnily enough the only thought running through my head at the time, well apart from shit I can’t breathe, was he best not have broken my ribs because then it is going to really hurt to ride Richie.

At least it showed that my recent worry about his feet was somewhat unnecessary. He sure does not have any problems doing handstands and kicking out! And that we need to practice the leading-alone-without-mummy a bit more.

With me paying a bit more attention this time.

So Close

Richie came second again on Sunday. Which was great, apart from that this time we really thought he would win. But then this stupid horse that had not finished one jump race this season with the rider still on decided it was time to behave. That’s racing for you.

Richie jumped well, tried his best and really we could not have expected any more. But nonetheless it was a bit of a disappointment. Put in the words of mum “Why could that stupid horse not have thrown its rider off today like it normally does?”

Well, I am slightly embarrassed to admit that I feel the same way. Not that I want to see anyone get hurt mind you, but a soft fall after the fourth fence like last time surely couldn’t be too much to ask…

But Dad decided to look on the bright side of things: With the first prize also including another gym membership, at least he didn’t have to join me at the gym. The next race is sponsored by Jack Daniels – that is much more to his liking.

So That Was Why...

Thursday, 30 August 2007

After the race on the Derby day Richie had a slight nosebleed. The vet was called out, all appropriate tests carried out and the answer was a throat infection. The vet reckoned he had been put back at least 30 percent. So a fourth place was a very decent performance and more than we could have asked for anyway.

The trouble with Richie is that he must have an extremely high pain threshold. He was still eating, still happily working and pulling his leader around the parade ring before the race with that naughty school boy look on his face. No one could have known.

When he pulled one of the muscles in his back right off at the end of the season as a two year old he was only lame for two days. Luckily the injury was fairly obvious so we gave him two months off before I spent the winter slowly bringing him back again.

He is now receiving the appropriate treatment and will be checked again shortly to monitor his recovery. Hopefully he will be fit for fight again pretty soon.

Big Day for the Little One

Pic: Getting tired and more interested in chewing my shoes...

On Saturday my little baby had his first experience of the big world. It consisted of the inside of a trailer, a panel of serious looking judges and more other horses than he had ever seen in his life, and a surprising amount of them his size.

He took it all in his stride, but was fairly subdued compared to what he is normally like at home. Most of the time he stood nicely next to his mother watching the others and in the ring he followed me around like a little dog. So in other words my worry about him misbehaving was unfounded.

As for the actual evaluation it went well too. For a moment I was a bit worried as the judges seemed to take a dislike to his mother, and her neck in particular. But in the end he got good marks for his conformation and was marked down on his trot and canter.

Marks:

Type 8
Head/neck/body 8.5
Legs 8
Walk 9
Trot 6
Canter 6.5

Overall impression 7.5


I choose to explain his lack of paces with his young age and the tiring journey. The trot mark is fair enough but I refuse to worry about his canter seeing that his mother is a race horse and his father got a 10 for his canter. I opt for the excuse used by most parents when their offspring underachieve; he was just having an off day. He was just overwhelmed by the pressure. He is very talented really.

On a more serious note I have to say that at least he got good marks on the things that are impossible to improve, like conformation and walk. The canter will come I’m sure and the trot we will just have to work on. Besides the other week we happened to see Foal of the Year 2004 and it was not exactly anything to get over excited about… It is a difficult game to predict the future. I’m afraid I have to wait until he is three and I am actually sat on him to know whether I have got myself a really nice horse or not.

His First Little Friend

About three weeks ago Romantico made his first little friend. Or actually she was not so small. And in his opinion not so friendly either. Despite her attempts to approach him he was terrified.

Whenever she approached he would shy away and hide behind me or Bellis for comfort. He was like a small child clinging to his mother(s) legs at his first birthday party. Luckily his mother is well hard, Bellis that is NOT me, and sends the other two running if they get too close.

The way he has been acting lately I have to say it came as quite a surprise. This was miles away from the cheeky little sod he has been lately, raring up on his mother and biting us in the knees. Suddenly it is in his interest to behave well.

The other mare and her foal, Chloe, stayed with us for two weeks up to the foal show. Bellis seemed to really appreciate the company, although she was careful not so show it too much. And the day before the show Romantico seemed to have overcome the fear of his two month older new girlfriend and actually instigated a play fight. I’m sure they both miss them now that they are gone…

Love at First Sight

Wednesday, 29 August 2007

He’s got the longest legs, the cutest face and the softest little muzzle. From the minute he drew his first breath in this world I felt an overwhelming love for him. Two months later I can’t imagine life without him.

He is my first own horse and I cannot wait to watch him grow up. And it is something about animal babies that make you feel happy just looking at them. When he curls up to sleep he is just too cute.

I know, I am going soft. Completely and utterly. But it is so worth it!

WANTED: Marcus' Arse

Early in the morning of Richie’s big race we got the phone call every race horse owner dreads. The jockey was missing.

The run up to the race had been close to perfect. Richie was in good health, jumped well and looked good on the morning of the Derby Gallop the Tuesday before the big race. Even the weather was on our side. After the most miserable summer anyone can remember we had no rain all week so the ground was good –just the way Richie likes it.

And then the bastard stupid arse jockey didn’t get on his stupid plane. And didn’t even tell anyone why. And on the biggest racing day in the calendar. We were only alerted after someone called the trainer and told him our man was not on the minibus that collected the jockeys from the airport. And yes this is the guy whose brilliance I have been raving about and who up until the Derby Day was believed to be the reliable type as well. Obviously not.

So then what do you do? The alternatives were slim to say the least in the country of one racecourse and about two jump jockeys. The trainer picked up his phone and called the only one of them who was available. And he said yes.

So you would think the crisis was over and all was good. The boy is in his late teens, son of a flat jockey and has jump raced abroad. But to put it this way, it probably wasn't a coincidence that he wasn’t already booked for the race. The last time I saw him jump he crashed through the wing of the fence and was dumped quite spectacularly. Then he sat on the grass and cried whilst some girl jumped it instead. Not quite what we had in mind for this race in other words.

“Oh, he normally gets around,” another racegoer said reassuringly as we explained the desperate situation. Great! I was starting to get seriously worried.

The rest of the time up to the race was spent cursing Marcus, wondering what could have happened to him (everything from broken bones to pulling hot women was suggested but in my opinion only something drastic like being kidnapped or being in a coma is a good enough excuse to not even pick up the phone and explain yourself) and sharing stories of other similar desperate situations.

Like that time our trainer’s jump jockey pulled out only minutes before the race and with all other jump jockeys booked up he had no other option than to walk into the jockey wardrobe and announce to the flat jockeys “I need a rider for a jump race. Anyone up for it?” Whereupon a small Argentinean guy said “That sounds like fun, I’ll do it!” and he ended up coming third.

Or back in the days when there was such a thing as a Grand National over here and my dad found his aunt’s jockey asleep in the water jump after a particular good party the night before the race. Luckily they managed to carry him home and he came out the next day and won.

But despite trying to take it with a smile it was a serious blow that Marcus didn’t show. Having performed so well this far in the season, Richie was actually tipped as favorite by the racing program. This was of course also based on the experience of the pilot.

And as Richie came galloping towards the test jump in front of the stand with our replacement jockey I was just tempted to close my eyes. But of course I couldn’t. And as he jumped the first fence nicely his jockey jumped with him miles over the saddle like a doll that was being thrown into the air. It became even more evident how good Marcus is. There was a world of balance between them.

Luckily Richie has some experience now. So the riding instructions were simple: Take it easy - He knows what he’s doing and jumps well. And that was pretty much how the race went. Richard got around well but was never up there. He ended fourth.

I could now go into a long deep analysis of how Marcus would have done a much better job and all the rest of it, but I think I got most of that out yesterday. Our replacement jockey did his best and got Richie around safely. We couldn’t really ask for more.

And as for Marcus, my dad and uncle decided after a couple of beers at the races that he best either produce a really good excuse for his absence or send a picture of the woman - or women - who caused him to be late. There was a certain amount of understanding in the air and I have a feeling they saved some of the really good stories from the old days until my mother and I were out of earshot.

Drag Dinner Party

It was a Saturday night, we were invited to a dinner party and we were nearly 4 hours late because of a horse. Nothing unusual there then.

But after some serious map reading issues, mainly caused by being instructed by our host to go to the wrong town, we actually found the place. It turned out to be a beautiful traditional farm with a crazy amount of cars parked on the lawn. It was clearly a party going on. We had just found a spot between the farmhouse and what appeared to be the stables when I spotted a person through one of the windows.

“Oh my goodness, did you see that?!” I said to Kris indicating towards the farmhouse.
“Where?”
“Oh!” Kris said and started laughing as a massive man in a shimmering silver dress and so much makeup he resembled a clown rather than a woman, came into view again.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

By now Cat and Thomas had appeared from their car as well and just as I started whispering the words transvestite and bloody hell the person I was referring to appeared on the steps outside the house. He, or she I suppose, must have been 6ft 4 and looked seriously frightening in all her excessive glamour.

“We are going to a party, but I am not entirely sure we are in the right place,” Cat tried whilst the rest of us did our best to not stare and suppress the giggles.

“The party is that way,” Sheman said and pointed in direction of the stable door. As he took a drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke over his left shoulder in a rather dramatic fashion, probably only used by drag queens, I dared look at him a bit closer.

He was a very big bloke. Both tall and - how do I put this nicely –a bit chubby. The really odd thing though was that there was nothing feminine about him at all. I mean some drag queens look quite good after all. And without his wig on and a short public school boy haircut it just looked bizarre. So in silent consensus we decided it was safest to just do as we were told and headed quickly into the stables.

It was just a classic. The four of us walking down the stables towards the indoor school door, the music getting louder, our pace slower until we stopped leaving Cat heading for the door on her own.

“You bastards!” she said as she turned around and realized none of us where going to open that door in this lifetime - or next.

“For all we know it could be 40 transvestites dancing on the tables,” said Kris to our defence.

“So it’s probably better if you go first,” he added and then we all just cracked up completely.

So there we were, in a stable in the middle of the countryside, too scared to open the door to what appeared to be an indoor school and laughing hysterically like naughty kids. That was when the door flew open and Andy appeared with a glass of wine.

“Are you here already,” he exclaimed, leaving us uncertain whether he was being sarcastic or just drunk.
He then threw himself at each of us in turn in a far too friendly greeting before he turned around to guide us into the now very silent party. No one else seemed too keen to follow him so I took an executive decision and decided it was better to get it over and done with. So I walked behind him to a table, the others now in tow, and tried my best to smile at the staring faces. At least there seemed to be no transvestites. And if I had been more updated on the who’s who in the horse world I would probably have recognized most of them.

We had only just grabbed some food and sat down when the music started and the room went silent again. And in came the world’s largest women in a silver frock and a long black wig. The 30 cm high heels make her look like a circus freak. It turned out our friend from outside was the evening’s entertainment. Whilst miming to “I am beautiful” she did some sort of moves that resembled dancing and inhaled half a can of hair spray. And the room went mad.

As for why we had no idea. Our little group completely failed to get carried away. Clearly we were missing the point.

”I feel like such a snob,” Cat whispered to me. She wasn’t the only one.

But in between the numbers we were filled in on the secret: He had been on TV. They loved him over here. Personally I just felt a very strong feeling of embarrassment well up inside and went for the wine.

And the wine came to good use when Sheman appeared again for the grand finale. Dressed in a white body decorated with crystals he came alarmingly close to our table whilst making sure none of us will ever enjoy listening to Cher ever again. But judging by the reaction of the rest of the room when this monster with three tits escaping south as he wriggled his way around us was just what the party needed. Suddenly they all got up on their chairs.

”We are not getting up on the chairs,” Cat said to me in a slightly desperate tone of voice clutching my arm as if to physically stop me from doing so.
“No, no,” I assured her. “I am already 6 ft tall, I certainly don’t need to get on a chair.”
“Good, because my chair would break!”
“But I think we should at least stand up, as it could be potentially quite dangerous to stand out,” I whispered as Sheman started touching himself in unmentionable places whilst dancing with some rider who was wearing his now discarded skirt around his head.

”This must be the party from hell!” Cat said.
“Well, at least it can’t get any worse,” I replied.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. We were at a barn party, I should have known better really. Half an hour later, after we had been informed that we were more than welcome to put our tent up in the other half of the school and stay the night – not so tempting somewhat – Cat said to me:

“I should say hello to the person sat behind you. Could you just poke him on the shoulder for me?”
“Yes no problem,” I replied, turned around and poked this guy’s shoulder. When he turned around and looked straight at me I realized I was wrong. It was a problem indeed.

Because looking straight at me was the guy who about three years ago had put his hand down my shirt at a party bak home. This happened about 3 ½ minutes after his girlfriend had left the building and when I told him there was no hope in hell he answered by picking me up and trying to carry me out of the flat to go clubbing. 3 seconds later I tried my best to punch his lights out. When this was not particularly successful I pinched him until he finally let go before I looked myself in a bedroom. At this stage he still could not understand why I did not want to go clubbing with him. We just named him the Groper after that. The Groper actually worked for Cat for a while but turned out to be fairly useless and disappeared back to his home country.

But here he was again. Just as I got his attention someone had called Cat from the other side of our table so she suddenly had her back to us. I frantically pointed in her direction indicating that I did not by any means or under any circumstances want his attention for myself. It was for Cat! It was seriously embarrassing. I could have died.

Seeing my shocked expression Cat said to me “What’s the matter with you?”

“It just got worse! A lot worse!”


Just for the record:

- TV is a very powerful media. In fact frighteningly so.

- The food and wine was actually very nice, and did in no way reflect the tacky entertainment.

- We did not spend the night in a tent or on the hay bales as suggested. Why would we bring a tent?!? As soon as our host was too drunk to notice we escaped and made our way home.

- Sheman became famous through a reality talent show and his biggest dream is to get on the front page of Vogue.

- The Groper was last seen dribbling down some poor girl’s cleavage whilst the mother of his child looked suitably cross.

- Cat still claims that she new nothing about my incident with him and that she would never have done it on purpose. Eventually we chose to believe her. But she certainly will never forget it now.

- Sheman turned out to be quite the gentleman when she gave up some of his bath time to let me use the toilet…

- …and I totally lied when I told her I thought she had better legs than me!

Happy Days

My two boys July 2007

Blast From the Past

Suddenly it all came back. And I remembered why I found it so hard to leave the UK.

I was at a dressage show in down south, normally a pretty boring affaire, and really enjoying it. It took me back to the days when I was a groom and got to go to big shows and be around great riders. Not that this show was big, the horses that nice or the riders at all great, but my old boss was there. Nereds had come to town.

A former dressage rider and now a grand prix judge, Nereds is normally right where it is happening. Well maybe apart from last weekend that is, when she was in our neck of the woods. Some genius in a local riding club, now my new favorite person, had decided to invite her to judge at the summer grand prix show.

It was so good to see her again. Her stories at the evening bbq of judging incidents and general mischief she had got up to lately had us laughing so hard the organizers must have feared for their garden furniture. With a weakness for wine, oakley’s and sports cars she is not your average 70 year old. Rumour has it she was spotted at the dressage show in Aachen last year wandering the streets with her Sat-Nav looking for a wine shop.

As her groom I was always updated on the latest gossip, given large amounts of wine and Pimms and frequently “lent out” to other riders. The latter might sound like an unfortunate fate but for me it was invaluable experience and an opportunity to work for some top class riders without being employed by them –which is normally not so great.

In the last year I have missed my old horsey life less and less. But suddenly I was right back there. Remembering all the fun we had when we went to Carl’s for lessons, organized the summer dressage festival and that time James’ breeches split right up the back just before his test. The mind has a funny way of toning down the bad times. Because we sure had plenty of them too.

The thing is those days are gone forever. I will obviously never be 19 again. And the 26 year old me does not want to work 24-7, live in a shared house (16 of us at one point) and be paid hardly any money. But the interesting thing will be how I can shape the future. And seeing Nereds again confirmed that anything is possible.

Bye Bye Balls

I’m so sorry Amor. What can I say, it had to be done.

Exactly a month ago, as I was busy making the last preparations before the birth, Amor had his balls chopped off. Considering his temperament, current location and sales potential the answer gave itself really. It was not worth keeping him as a stallion.

As opposed to Richard who had his cut off under local anesthetic standing up one afternoon the summer he was two, Amor was put out completely before they were removed at the vets. Everything went by the book and he is now happily getting on with his new life as a gelding.

The mare’s owner’s ten year old daughter overheard me tell her mother that Amor had just been castrated and was not impressed.

“Promise that you won’t do it to him,” she said accusingly to me pointing at the little two days old sleeping creature in the corner of the stable.
“Well, it depends on…” I tried, but was interrupted by her most insistent little voice.
“No, promise!? Promise you won’t do it!”
“Hopefully, I won’t have to, and it certainly wouldn’t happen for years anyway,” I said quietly hoping this would satisfy her.
“Now you can give him a cuddle if you like,” I added to distract her as the owner of the balls in question woke up and looked at us.
Not totally convinced she nodded her head and quietly made her way over to him to pat his neck.

The thing is, unless you want to seriously breed from them there are lots of good reasons to castrate stallions. So to be able to keep my promise and keep him entire he would have to be extremely talented. Well, I can always hope.

Don't Worry Jeremy Clarkson

Despite my recent attempts at “car blogging” I can ensure you that it’s a passing stage. I do realize that when it comes to cars I am most certainly talking out of my backside.

My passion is and will always be horses. To me cars are mainly a very convenient form of transport –to the stables and back. Although I fully support your stand on caravans, Vauxhall Vectras and health and safety regulations.

You will be pleased to know that I have joined the group “Jeremy Clarkson should be Prime Minister” on Facebook and I encourage all my friends to do the same. If you can get me to read several books about cars I am sure you can get most people interested in politics, which is sorely needed.

That was all really, you are the man!

F&%#ing Farrier

When the farrier came out to take off the mare’s shoes just after the birth and she wasn’t standing quietly he hit her in the head with his hammer. Right… Not most people’s idea of horsemanship.

He did not seem to think that her just giving birth and her son harassing her to get milk at the time was reason enough for him to show some patience. Neither did he seem too worried about the damage he could have inflicted on her.

When I was told I didn’t know what to say. Or actually I did, but I am not going to list my whole repertoire of swear words here to describe how I feel about him. But to put it this way: He won’t be getting business from us again.

Just like there are bastard people there are bastard horses. And just like some people need to be taught a lesson, so do some horses. But still in the western world we choose to find other ways of doing it than stoning people to death or hitting them over the head with a hammer. Although it can be bloody tempting sometimes.

Instead we lock people up to prevent them from damaging themselves and others. But because jail sentences and economic sanctions are not really applicable on horses we sometimes have to resort to a well placed slap or two. Because as much as a crazy axe murder can kill you so could potentially an out of control horse.

500 kilos of uncontrolled flesh can cause a lot of damage. When I was working with horses full time I always assisted the farrier in his work. It mainly involved bringing endless cups of tea and providing the latest gossip from the yard but when a particularly bastard of a horse in my care was refusing to cooperate we had to resort to teaching him a lesson that involved a certain amount of violent action. But no hammer. The result was that after a few sessions he stood still and did as he was told. And I can assure you it was not because he was scared of us, he had just realised that as supposed to his owner we would not let him get away with walking all over us.

In a perfect world you would not let it get to that point. I have now got the chance to form the little baby foal the way I want. And there is no way I am letting some stupid ass farrier ruin that because he can’t control his temper.

I would much rather go through the seemingly impossible task of finding another capable farrier.

Just For the Record

In light of recent events I would just like to say that when I compared Marcus’ riding to the professionals in Tour de France I did by no means wish to associate him with what has turned out to be a bunch of lying blood smuggling tricot clad epo and testosterone junkies on bikes.

My point was simply that he is a real professional and most of the others are not. Besides Richard always shows up for his drug tests without any protest and he has most certainly not been to Mexico lately...

That was all.

Highs and Lows

Whilst I was cheering Richie into second place in the jump race on Thursday the mare started to show colic symptoms.

Thursday evening turned out to be a perfect example of the unpredictability that comes with horses. Although being an excellent source of recreation and relaxation they can also cause extreme worry and distress. Thursday certainly had all of that and more.

Due to a heavy course and Richie not quite being in peak condition we were just hoping that he would be among the three first across the finish line in this particular race. But when he was suddenly neck to neck with the leader about 200 metres before home the excitement rose and I could not stop myself from jumping up and down cheering Richie on.

But the excitement of Team Richie was not enough to make him beat his hardest competitor over jumps this season. He came second but the initial disappointment was soon replaced with delight that he had under the circumstances run a very good race. You can’t win them all.

So the planned celebration of Richie in general that was taking place in the evening was still on with the team in good spirits. But then just as we got home I received the phone call that I always dread. The mare was showing signs of colic.

Colic must be every horse owner’s biggest nightmare. So unexpected, so variable, so out of your control and so potentially deadly. Needless to say we threw ourselves in the car. The Stud Muffin on the way to his first colic watch and me praying that I would not have to experience another one with a deadly outcome.

Down the yard the girls had already started walking her around and the vet had been called and was on his way. The now three week old little colt was happily charging up and down the arena seemingly unaware of his mother’s pain.

Then the vet came, examined her, administered some drugs and went. The Stud Muffin went back home for supplies and camping beds and I walked round and round the outdoor school with a lethargic mare and an overjoyed foal. At least he was enjoying all the attention.

A long night followed. Fortunately the Stud Muffin was there with me. Despite his relatively newfound horse “interest” he was excellent. Luckily the mare got better rather than worse and when I walked her out for the third time at 4.30 she was so desperate for food she dragged me down the path towards the grass verge. Always a good sign.

And the next morning when she tried to bite me as I gave her a little bit of hay over her door I knew she would be ok.

Yesterday, with happiness restored in the little family, I decided to go and see Richie. Three days after the race he was still lame on the leg he had bashed on the last fence to home –which in hindsight might have cost him the victory – and so tired he looked like he had been drugged. When I stroked his neck and head he just quietly put his head on my shoulder without even trying to nibble me or bite my hair.

I know it’s normal that they get tired after a tough race and that he will soon bounce back but it still breaks my heart to see him like that. I do hate it when they are not well.

I Loose

Congratulations to my sister on the very unexpected purchase of a 2005 BMW M3 series estate!

But I still have the nicest horse…

Let's Not Forget Richie

In stark contrast to the maternal hormone overload and all the baby foal fuss currently taking place, Richie has proved that he is well hard. After kicking off the season with a second place in a flat race on the National Day he has just gone from strength to strength.

Considering his first race this season was in very good company and he was only beaten by a few lengths it was a very good start indeed. He then followed up with another second place in his first ever jump race. Again a solid result, but personally I was just overjoyed he made it back in one piece. Saying that, he was in the very capable hands of British jump jockey Marcus and got the best possible run for a first time out.

With it being a quiet time of year in the UK for jump races, Marcus who is normally second jockey to one of the best UK jump trainers, did not seem to mind being flown over to us for a ride and a bit of a party.

Watching him ride was like tuning into Tour the France after spending 20 minutes swearing at the backside of some slightly overweight idiot amateur cyclist on the way home on roads that made it impossible to overtake. His riding could not even be compared to what normally takes place at our little racecourse. Here was a professional at work.

It was overheard said among the more knowledgeable punters afterwards that here was a jockey that actually dared give the horse his head, resulting in it actually hurdling properly. It was a proud Team Richie that left the race course that day and already the following morning made a request for Marcus for his next race.

And he accepted. In between the jump races Richie also clocked up a victory in a flat race sponsored by a chain of training studios. This resulted in me now getting 3 months free training as my dad felt he did not need it - Anyone who has ever laid eyes on both of us is likely to disagree.

But regardless of the fitness level of his owners, or lack of such, Richie was certainly on a roll. On the day of the next jump race Richie appeared with two grooms hanging off him in a desperate attempt to stop him from doing handstands in the parade ring and contain his energy to the actual race. But Richïe had plenty of go in him and Marcus managed to squeeze every bit of it out of him and take him first over the finish line in a beautiful finish.

It was just one of those moments when everything explodes. Joy, excitement, pride and most of all love for that little horse that I have spent so much time with. He might act like a complete idiot at times but at the end of the day he has a heart of gold. Now he had also shown that he has the talent needed.

So Team Richie is obviously in good spirits before the next race on Thursday. Marcus is booked, Richie is so fit the girls are refusing to ride him out and the jump jockey we use for training won't charge us for his services as he claims he can teach him no more.

The only problem on the horizon is the bloody weather. He does not like heavy going and at this rate it will be. But then saying that, with a professional on board you never know. I can’t wait – Go Richie!

A Control Freak Out of Control

I had just entered my fourth hour of sleep in the last 48 when the alarm went off. My body tried to win the battle by practically sending me straight back to sleep the minute I had turned the intense ringing off, but lost. My head and heart were prepared for it and made me stagger across the room to get dressed. I had to make sure they were ok.

Half an hour later I quietly entered the stable block and looked over Bellis’ door. In the corner was the perfect little foal asleep while his mother kept watch.

They were fine. The relief. The happiness. No amount of sleep or money could have bought that feeling.

When I told the mare’s owner I had driven out to check on mother and child at four o’clock in the morning to make sure they were okey, I got the following text message back:

“You are mad! :-)”
“I know! The control freak tendencies are out of control :-)”

Really in the long run I have three options: 1. Give up my day job and start my own yard so I can look after him all the time myself. 2. Give up my day job and live off benefits so I can be down the yard everyday and look after him myself or 3. Let go a little and hope for the best.

At the moment I have opted for option number 3, however difficult it is. My financial situation does not allow for anything else at the moment. Of course number 1 would be ideal, but then life isn’t. So I will just have to grind and bear it for now. It is very difficult though!

Day 1: First trip out in the field. He soon got so tired he needed a little rest...

My Fantastic Foal

For once I am lost for words. To say that it was fantastic does not cover it at all.

But just before midnight on Tuesday Bellis gave birth to a beautiful foal. My foal.

And it was fantastic! He is fantastic! Everything is fantastic!

*FANTASTIC*

Now I need some sleep.

20 minutes old and wondering what all the fuss is about...

Let the Panic Begin

It is just past midnight on Friday night and I am hurriedly driving through the rain. Not to get home from a party or social gathering. Not to check out Oslo’s nightlife or meet up with friends. But to see a horse. Because I just had this feeling. The panic has now set in for real.

And as I stood there in the darkness watching a most certainly not about to give birth Bellis snoozing again after greeting me with a surprised cuddle, I realized that it was time to move out to the yard. That feeling I suddenly got on Friday night whilst watching TV is going to turn into a permanent state until the foal is born. The feeling that something could be happening right now and that I ought to be there.

Despite the vet saying two days earlier that she did not expect anything to happen for another week. Despite seeing with my own eyes on Friday night when I left the yard at eight o’clock that there were no signs of anything happening yet.

So from last night we have been sleeping at the yard. That way she can be checked on last thing, first thing and in between as required. Hopefully it will be one long week and not three. Either way it is a small sacrifice to make to ensure that the foal arrives safely.

Wish me luck!

Welcome KA

When I started looking for a new car I had three things in mind. The price, the age and heated seats. As much as I loved Karl to bits he did not have much to offer when it came down to instant heating in the winter.

But as my knowledge of the world of small cars got more extensive I realized that I also would prefer it to not look like a poodle on steroids. No offence to the newer Micras, but they are hardly attractive. In my opinion Karl looked better then. At least he had more of a classic look, although I was determined not to push my luck by going for another 10+ purchase.

I am not even going to try to pretend that I have the slightest competence when it comes to cars. Or particular interest. This is the girl who pays immigrant workers to change her tyres twice a year and bribes her friends into refilling oil and windscreen wash. Well, actually it was more like begging… I need a car for transport and that’s it. I am quite good when it comes to parallel parking but my car related skills end just there.

After looking around at some cars within my price range - including manhandling a 1997 Vauxhall in a test drive that lasted all of 7 minutes (“There is just no way I’m having it! I’d rather get a moped!”) - I was not wildly optimistic.

Then I went to see the KA. And it was love at first sight. Small, practical and even more importantly: Good looking. I was sold. If you add that it was reasonably priced and only from 2000 it was overall not a bad buy for someone with a car budget of NOK 3.067 (Broken down: 1.500 blood money for Karl, 1.500 refund on Karl’s annual road tax and 67 kroner worth of empty water bottles recovered from Karl’s backseat during the final clean out.) Suddenly I had forgotten all about the heated seats and a week later the KA was sold too. To me. Needless to say the budget was blown and generous family loans much appreciated.

So I now have a CD player, airbags and lovely paintwork (no funny looking rubber bumpers on mine), but unfortunately no heated seats for cold winter days. Although at the moment it so flipping hot here the seats are heated anyway – so I’ve instead started dreaming of having air con some day. The luxury. For now I am just very pleased to have a fairly new nice car in a country where any car is considered a luxury item and taxed extensively - and then some more.

The KA might be very small but with its “designer looks” it is much cooler than most other cars in the same size category. It is like the better looking little sister of the Corsa, the Punto and the Fiesta all in one. I would say it even beats the Polo on looks. Being the older sister myself I know all about being the sensible boring one. No offense, but out of most sisters that I know the younger one is always hotter looking and more fun –my own sister included. Then it is a small comfort that new research now indicates that the oldest child is normally more intelligent. Of course I knew that already anyway.

Well, at least now I am the one with the hottest looking car. The fact that my sister doesn’t actually even own a car doesn’t really matter. I still win.

Kill Karl

Honestly he felt fine. After 18 years he was still raring to go and fit for fight. He never complained or gave me any grief. On the other hand there was that strange sound on the left side. And the squeaky breaks. And the noise he made when I parallel parked. But despite all this I was convinced he still had a few good years in him. Until the EU landed him with a death sentence that was. One month left on the road. I was going to have to kill Karl. Just like that.

“You can’t accept blood money,” my sister wailed. “It’s Karl!”
“Have you any idea how expensive it is to run a car? And how much I need another one by the end of the month?”
“Yes, but still! You can’t scrap him – that’s murder!”
“Well, what do you want me to do? Send him to a nice retirement home? Bury him in the garden?”
“Hmmm...”

And before I knew it my month was up, I was the owner of a newer car and more debt and I was taking Karl to his last resting place. The scrap yard. Although risking sounding like a complete sentimental twat I have to say that it was not an easy thing to do.

While I filled out the required forms a man with a crowbar went outside to take off the registration plates. A few minutes later he came back with two plates twisted beyond recognition. Obviously Karl had fought to the bitter end. I blew him a last kiss and walked away without looking back. The tears in my eyes were not just due to the extraordinary high pollen count that was surrounding the city.

Karl was my first car. Named after a sitcom character by me and my sister in a drunken state after celebrating the purchase and my birthday all in one night, he soon became a part of the family.

We continued the naming tradition with my dad’s new car calling it Kato after a famous disabled guy when I somehow managed to get stuck leaving a parking lot with one of those spiraling exits and left it looking like it had been attacked with a tin can opener. I had to get a man to help push me off the wall. Not my proudest moment…

Bought from an old friend of the family Karl was old but still had plenty to offer with only 43.000 km on the clock. After spending his first 15 years going from town to down to Parliament and the time in between in a heated garage and being washed and hovered extensively every week, life with me was something else. I left him out in the rain, filled him up with smelly horsey coats for all possible weather scenarios and pushed him to do 120 km on the motorway. And I think he really enjoyed it. Being my horsey transport seemed to suit him just fine and he never objected to being my second wardrobe either. It was pointed out by various passengers that all I missed in there was a horse really. Or pony would probably have been more realistic with Karl being a Nissan Micra.

Soon all my friends and family knew who Karl was. When a male friend loudly announced “Oh, here comes darling in our car!” I had to object. Darling? Hmmm, don’t think so. OUR car? Most certainly not. For the first time I experienced what it was like having someone chasing you for your possessions. Now you could argue that to chase me for my 1989 Micra he would have to be pretty mad, but then this was the guy who insisted on having Tacos at the wedding reception if he ever got married. But then he was Swedish I suppose. The point is that Karl was special and I wasn’t the only one who thought so. I would not go quite as far as saying that he touched the hearts of his passengers forever, but he certainly had character.

But with Karl now in Nissan Micra Heaven, the blood money spent and a Ford KA in the driveway you should think I had forgotten all about him. But I still keep his key on my key ring. That’s the least he deserves.

Karl roughing it February 2006…

Obesity is Dangerous

26. January 2007

Last week Richie decided he was scared of a shadow so leapt in the air and then landed on my foot. Estimate impact 500 kilos. There and then it felt like it was broken, but a few hours and wine glasses later the pain subsided and I was fine.

On Friday a fat woman decided to throw herself in the air in celebration of the band that was playing and then landed on my foot. Despite already having consumed two wine glasses (would have worked as pain relief) I could hardly walk when I left the place a few hours later. Today, Monday, the pain is still considerable. Estimated impact is therefore more than 500 kilos.*
Conclusion: Fat people are more dangerous than horses.

* These scientific calculations are based on the level of pain inflicted, the amount of alcohol, time of alcohol consume and duration of the pain.

Horse Cure

11. February 2007

With my energy levels hitting rock bottom this week I found myself actually eating Richie’s carrots in between riding him and the mare. Just for the record I have run out of the ones we buy in bulk from the carrot man so they were in fact luxury carrots nicked out of the fridge. Saying that I probably would have eaten the other ones too at that point.

So why is it that Richie appears to be getting fitter and chirpier by the day whilst I feel more and more ready for some quiet nursing home? Clearly I am doing a better job with his fittening regime than with mine. The other day I spent a good hour and a half on him and he came out the next morning looking like he had not done a thing all week, making the housewives scatter and go all pale as he launched himself into the indoor school. For some reason I seemed to be the only one affected by the previous day’s battle. Even those stomach muscles down the side that all these crazy aerobic instructors insist that you have actually hurt, so suppose I should just be grateful I have found them at last.

And I suppose I should be pleased that Richie is obviously feeling so well because it means that I must be doing something right. My constant worry about feeding him correctly and him eating enough seems somewhat a bit unnecessary the way he is acting. So the other day I put down the horse vitamin supplement, left the saddlery and went and bought some vitamins for me instead, hoping it might even the odds out a little bit.

Not that I have felt any benefit from them yet. In fact I came down with the flu two days later. I probably should have got the horse vitamins actually –for me that is. A proper horse dosage might have done the trick. But then again if I had managed my own eating regime as strictly as I do Richie’s I might be bouncing about the place too. But although the alfalfa he gets is excellent quality and smells very nice I am not sure I would want it for breakfast. And I am not too keen on the energy cubes either. When I worked in England we always made boiled barley for the out ponies in the winter and standing in the feedroom at 7.30 with only half a cup of coffee in me I was often tempted by the delicious smell. Not that I actually ever really resorted to eating horse feed. I mean Fat Steve’s cooking was pretty bad, but even his recycled macaroni cheese was slightly more tempting than sugar beet. Mind you I don’t know about his vegetable cannelloni…

But what I would do was use things like horse cooling gel on bruises and strains or plaiting tape to tie together my fingers when Nigel managed to break them. Kay apparently tried to snort bute once, but it was not all that successful I believe. According to our test woman it did not really lead to any favorable high but then again with bute being horse painkiller I don’t know what she actually expected. Likewise smoking haylage is not recommended but then most of us probably figured that one out without actually lighting up. What we can determine from this behaviour though is that it is not healthy to live in the middle of nowhere surrounded by just horses and other horsey people for too long.

But it seems like Kay might have been onto something because when reading the Guardian column Lost in Showbiz the other week I learned that the latest hot drug among the stars to keep the kilos away is called clenbuterol and is actually horse asthma medication. Well I don’t know… maybe if it could cure the cough I am developing. My boss suggested I should get some of that Tamiflu stuff because that’s what he is taking but I am sure that stuff is reserved for really old people and in case of bird flu. And I sure as hell haven’t got that. Wonder if it’s any good with horse flu though?

The funny thing is though that it does work the other way too. Last year the Olympic winner of the show jumping had his gold medal taken off him after his horse tested positive for a human drug used to treat schizophrenia. Well I can understand if the horse happened to wrongly get a horse drug like bute in its feed, but unless the rider or groom have serious issues what are the chances of the horse accidentally getting something like that into its system?

Either way my system needs recharging, but with the temperatures creeping back down this week I am not too hopeful. Everything is a lot more exhausting when you have to provide the body with energy to stay warm as well. Unfortunately the cold weather has the opposite effect on Richie, leading to him performing all sorts of unauthorized moves. So far I have stayed on, but one of these days he will have last word I am sure.

Goodbye Richie - Hello Holiday

2. March 2007

So the little rascal is going back. Despite his at times wicked ways I will miss him. That’s love for you. But the immediate loss will no doubt be eased by me flying halfway around the world only hours after his departure tomorrow to somewhere about 40 degrees warmer than here. All arrangements are made, Richie and all his stuff is ready for the move tomorrow morning and my suitcase is, well… still open and far from ready.

Holiday here i come!

Racing Days

31. May 2007

And then I was back on Richie. This time in a jockey saddle and far too short stirrups.

I would have loved to go on about how I went around the racecourse at great speed and over some pretty impressive hurdles, but then I would be lying. I only warmed him up for someone else to do that.

When I first got on I felt terribly vulnerable. Because the saddle, if you can call it a saddle, offers no support your safety is simply in the hands of your own balance. If your lower leg is not where it should be you’ll not make it past the first screaming child or car that gets in your way. So I did not feel all that safe as Rich bounced down the road shying at everything and anything feeling like a nuclear bomb about to go off. But as we got going I slowly felt more confident and although Rich is ten times fitter now than when I last sat on him I do know him pretty well. So I soon started dreading the part after the jump practice when I would have to be legged up onto him again instead of worrying about falling off.

Because getting leg-ups from strangers is one of my greatest fears. I think it stems from my days as a WP at Welly where this was a part of our training. It is not that it’s that difficult and I can do it perfectly well, but if you do get the timing wrong it is the worst feeling ever. Then you feel like the world’s most ungraceful bag of potatoes. And I don’t like that feeling at all. I can still hear my favorite instructor David’s words as I scrambled onto Corriander in Teaching Practice one afternoon. “What are you doing? You look like you’ve never been on a horse!”

Giving leg ups on the other hand is not that bad, because if it goes wrong it really is not your fault. When the jump rider came to school Rich I quickly got off and then legged him up. It’s the funniest feeling of defying gravity when weak-armed me can lift a 6 foot 4 bloke onto a horse like he was a feather. It’s all about springiness and timing, and this guy had plenty of both.

Back at Welly giving and receiving leg ups were a part of one of the riding exams we regularly hosted. During one examination where the line up consisted of an unusual amount of overweight middle-aged housewives, David who was in charge of the running of the exam, called for backup assistance from the yard as he realized it would be a complete disaster if they had to get each other on. This emergency backup team consisted of Aaron, believed to the be world’s tallest Jewish American -or at least Welly’s, the only two other male members of staff at the time and me. Well technically Aaron was the only Jewish American there and if his looks did not make him stand out, his accent surely did.

But the thing was one of the unfortunate shaped girls taking the exam was working on my yard and we really needed her to pass. To our great grief she had been allocated a horse named Boris who was the largest lump of a hunt horse anyone of us had ever seen. Since Hayley was about as wide as she was tall and with the springiness of an HGV David was freaking out. He therefore used all his gay charm to convince the grey haired lady examiner that it would be a great idea for his staff to assist with the leg ups. So in a desperate attempt to help Hayley Aaron was sent to her rescue. With a “thanks a lot” in the direction of David he wandered over and took a firm grip around Hayley’s leg. I was assigned to an outside client that probably weighed twice as much as me but by some miracle I managed to get her onto her mount, although not exactly gracefully.

With all of us gathered in the corner with the mission accomplished and all the womenfolk aboard their mounts, David whispered to Aaron.

“How on earth did you do that? I mean it’s Boris!”
“Well, I managed to hoist her halfway up and then I just bit her ass.” Aaron said with his thick American accent like it was a perfectly normal thing to do.
“That pretty much did it!”

As the laughter erupted the rest of us all legged it around the back of the stable building leaving poor David there trying to keep a straight face in front of the examiners.

So that’s one way of doing it. Although knowing full well that I would not need my ass bitten to get onto Richie, I was still a little nervous when the jockey went to leg me up. Luckily Rich was suitably tired after negotiating the hurdles so he actually helped me out by standing still for once. So before I knew it I was on him and the jockey smiled at me with teeth that had an unusual amount of gold in them for 2007.

“He was fucking brilliant today,” he beamed and took his helmet off revealing graying hair indicating that he had to be well into his forties. Respect. That’s all I can say really.

One thing is doing this when you’re young and stupid, another thing is to just keep going once you are technically past your prime -in jockey terms anyway. These days there are only about three or four jockeys over here who will actually ride over hurdles. The two that are used to school are not riding actively anymore and just doing it for fun. Now if that doesn’t make the rest of the jockeys seem like complete wimps I don’t know. So on race days the Jockey Club pays to fly over a bunch of jump jockeys who are not afraid of being catapulted into fences at great speed from the UK or Ireland. This might seem a little extravagant but the alternative is no race at all.

Although I am probably still young and stupid enough to want to try it, at least in training, there is no way the owner, which happens to be Dad, would let me do it. Which is a damn shame really because it looks like so much fun! Terrifying of course, but so exciting. The only upside is that I can live happily thinking that I would have done it, had I only been allowed. And I can always start saving for a xc horse. That would be fun too. Considering the amount of middle aged completely unbalanced women I have seen make it round the novice courses in the UK there should be hope for me yet. It is all about finding a good reliable horse really.

Super Semen

With only about a week to go until the birth I have to admit I am getting pretty stressed out. Despite desperately trying to block out all the what-ifs I have nightmares about foals that get stuck the wrong way around, won’t eat or just come out dead altogether.

Last year when we decided to actually cover Bellis we were already writing June so things had to happen pretty quickly. Two days after I had worked out an agreement with the owner the mare came into season. So I had about 24 hours to organize a horse trailer, a car that could pull a horse trailer, someone with a license to drive a car with a horse trailer, a vet appointment, a container to transport semen and most importantly the actual semen. So I dropped everything else and threw myself around making phone calls and cashing in favours left right and centre.

My scheduled dinner appointment the next day just said: “Really Hilly, if I didn’t know you so well I would have thought I had been stood up for the worst excuse ever. But since it’s you I am sure you are actually going to pick up some semen, so that’s fine.” Apparently it was story of the week in that office.

And I was going to pick up semen. After having found a container with liquid nitrogen I could rent at the veterinary college I got another friend to drive the mare to the vets for me before I got in the car and drove south to pick up the stuff. At this point it was well past midnight but I managed to find the estate after a few consultations with the wife on the phone. Even in the semi dark it was one of the most impressive places I have ever seen. Not the stables as such, but just the main house and the land. They even had fields down to the fjord and in the light summer night it was just beautiful.

Gustav and Lise acted like we were old friends and didn’t seem to mind at all that it was past midnight. They gave me a guided tour of the property and even took me down the field to have a look at their own Lauries Crusader foal. According to my new best friend Gustav, Lauries Crusader offspring were the hottest of the hot at the moment and he was terribly proud. About one o’clock we sat down on the terrace and gossiped about mutual friends and acquaintances before I was handed the little red sticks that was hopefully half the genes for my future dressage horse. With the little frozen swimmers safely placed in the container I started the drive back home, praying that the egg had not moved too far yet.

Unfortunately the little swimmers didn’t pull it off in the end, but then I would probably not have performed that well either after spending a few weeks in liquid nitrogen. Or maybe the egg had gone too far. It is impossible to say, but with frozen semen the timing is so important you can’t really expect it to go right on the first attempt anyway.

So I started the preparations for the next attempt. At work they just looked at me as I threw everything into my handbag and ran out saying; “The egg is moving, I have to pick up some more semen.”

No one seemed to have noticed that over the last few days half my phone calls had involved words like artificial insemination, semen and ovulation. But then again the guys at work understood far less Norwegian than I actually did Sinhalese.

So I launched the whole operation again. Got the mare to the vets and then made another journey to picked up extra semen down south. Gustav and Lise were away on holiday but were perfectly happy to have me pop by and take with me their whole container with thousands of Kroner worth of semen. Afraid something might happen to it I kept the container next to my bed over night. It was the first time I have slept next to that much quality semen, that’s for sure.

Early the next morning I drove it to the vet and this time we took no chances and used one dosage on each egg. That did the trick. Waiting for the verdict a month later I was shaking more than the mare when the vet put her arm up her backside to see if there was anything there. Apparently I was rather pale when she gave me the verdict.

“Congratulations, she’s in foal!”

So getting closer and closer to the big day now it almost feels like I’m having a baby myself. Well, apart from the obvious fact that I’m not about to give birth to a horse, but after all it is all my doing. And there is of course a fair amount of money involved. I would never dream of spend that kind of money on semen for me. Or hopefully I won’t have to anyway.

The thing is though, breeding is serious business. There really should be some sort of authorization for people too. The way it is now we breed from just about anything, so no wonder things get a bit out of hand at times.

The main trouble with humans is that it is all very much hit and miss. There is no real way of knowing if you are breeding from a potential super stud or a complete nag. At least with the horses you can easily find information about how other progeny are performing and how well your chosen stud has bred. With humans you just don’t know unless they happen to have plenty of offspring already. And chances are you would want to give someone with proven progeny all over the country a miss anyway.

Because there are no real guarantees that a quality stallion, or man, will breed well. Yes, the chances are better, but you can still end up with an underachiever or even a complete freak. In the case of a horse at least you can sell it, unfortunately according to the law, the same does not apply to children.

My sister once said “If ever I have children and they turn into Goths, I will most certainly give them away!” I could not agree more.

As for how to avoid the Goth genes my only advice would be stay clear of men with long black hair and dark alternative taste in music. Other than that: Good Luck! Personally I am sticking to horse breeding at the moment and my chosen stallion has bred very well indeed.

The Mother of All Hangovers

26. February 2007

I’m in a bad mood.* Not over anything in particular, just in general really. Just grumpy. I know it’s my full right but still I feel guilty about it. If I only had a proper reason I would feel a lot better about it. Sure the cold and snow has contributed to making me grumpy and Richie really has not helped matters with his increasingly hyperactive ways. But I can never be mad with him for very long. Although he has me effing and blinding and swearing to have him castrated all over again if I can only find a way, he is so truly cute once he realizes he has been bad I melt every time and he even gets extra carrots in the end.

But then my bad mood has nothing to do with Richie or even what time it is of the month. I think it might just be a case of too much of a good time that has backfired on me. It has happened before that I suddenly have found myself in a vile mood after having a particularly good time. The definite worst one I can remember was after a particularly good UK holiday a few years ago.

After a week and a half of nonstop fun with old friends normality hit me full on upon arrival back home. It was like life’s own hangover suddenly set in. It was like waking up after one of those nights when you have another 6 drinks after you have passed the official this-gets-me-drunk-limit. Or when you end up drinking pretty much everything you can get your hands on that contains alcohol and your system decides the only option is to shut down. Then you find yourself lying in bed in fetus position preying that it doesn’t get any worse. When it hurts to sleep I always know my body has had enough of me.

Being a bit of a control freak I am normally quite strict with my drinking rules, although I have been known on the odd occasion to break every single one in the course of a few hours, and subsequently suffer the consequences. The first one and above all the most important rule is: Never mix your drinks. I am sure anyone who is not a complete teetotal has a story of that time they ended up drinking a combination of pimms, baileys and apfelkorn or some other idiotic combination leading to an unpleasant and possibly very early end to the evening.

Mine was wine, vodka, a shot called Turkish (or actually quite a few of them…) followed by a lot more wine the year I turned 18. I ended up spending best part of the night throwing up over the edge of my friend’s snow covered terrace in minus 15 degrees –in a skirt- before my always considerate friend Petter decided I was probably about to freeze to death and came to look for me. He promptly took action, carried me inside and dropped me on the heated bathroom tiles where I spent the rest of the night involuntary watching all the boys release beer into the toilet next to my head. The only unfortunate thing, apart from this slightly unpleasant view, was that my body warmed up enough for my bodily functions to start functioning again, if you see what I mean. Luckily Petter was there to hold my hair, crack jokes on my behalf and answer my mobile when my mother rang to tell me that dad would pick me up at nine the next morning to take me to work at the stables.

After that I was quite religious about that one. Then follows no vodka after a similar episode a few years later. This I suspect was an age thing as my drinking career started off pretty much vodka only. Then comes no beer – too fattening and besides it has never to this date got me drunk, as every time I fail to drink more than 2 pints - no shots and last but not least I never have another drink after they have started to return on me. These rules, or guidelines, mean that nine out of ten times I end up on wine and wine only. This does occasionally cause odd looks and at times even protests from the person buying the round. Like the ones I got when I insisted on having a glass of chardonnay in a bowling hall just outside Basingstoke on a Monday afternoon.

“You can’t drink wine in here?!” my friend said with what sounded like real horror in his voice. Whereupon I calmly replied “Yes I can. It’s Basingstoke, surely anything goes?”

For those who are fortunate enough to not have had to suffer Basingstoke –it’s a dump. A complete and utter dump. The only classy thing that has been produced there in the last 300 years is Elisabeth Hurley. Oh and Burberry, but I suppose that has gone slightly downhill too after the chavs took a particular liking to it.

And just like wearing Burberry checked everything is not great, I have come to the conclusion that neither is having too much of a good time. Or at least you have to be prepared to suffer the consequences or say the hangover that follows.

*After I wrote this yesterday I woke up feeling like a new person today. So don’t tell me writing is not therapeutic... And just for the record, the good time was so worth it!

Richie

11. February 2007

At the moment I seem to be on top of the situation. Well most of the time anyway.

My tactic of working little Richie into the ground every day of the week seems to be working well so far. The only problem at the minute is that the jump saddle is causing –well how shall I put it – slight discomfort to my backend. Anyone who has spent a considerable amount of time in a Stubben will know what I am talking about. They are hardly built to be comfortable.

But apart from that things are going quite well. Well until people do stupid things like turning off the lights in the indoor just as I am about to enter that is. Then things still go a bit wild. Now this might not sound like a big drama at all but the only problem is that when they have just been turned of it takes about 10 minutes before they come on again. And that is a long time when you are holding onto half a ton of hyper active flesh that is throwing itself in all directions in the dark. Au! Now you could argue that it was my fault too for being on the phone at the time but I choose to rule that out as a decisive factor. And anyway the conversation did not last for very long. My friend just said “By the sounds of that Hilly, I will call you later,” and hung up on me. This was probably a good decision as I had just been head butted by dear Richie.

But on the whole we have come a long way in the last weeks really. In fact we have overcome quite a few obstacles since Richie arrived at the yard just over a month ago. Like him being in an indoor school for the first time ever. At first he was fine but then he pretty much had the shock of his life when he saw himself in the mirrors for the first time. Now I assume this was because the reflection was moving due to him freaking out and not because he suddenly realized he is not the 17.2 hh stallion he thinks he is most of the time.

We have also almost got used to walking from the stables to the indoor in the dark without causing too much damage, he has stopped freaking out every time he is left alone in the building and we have agreed that I am the one generally in charge of what direction we are going in.

In fact I have even started jumping him, which has been surprisingly successful. We have not attempted anything even remotely big yet but on the whole it is not bad going by an ageing dressage rider with bad knees. And the main thing is we both really enjoy it. And besides I have always ridden better when I am slightly worried about my safety. Makes me sit up and kick on. In these situations I still hear James’ words in the back of my head “Now ride like you have already fallen off!” That always helps.

The other day Richie was so well behaved I actually considered giving him a day off in the nearest future. It was particularly cold and as I got on I pleaded him to be good so that we could get it over and done with and return to the bliss of the 3 degrees above freezing currently in his stable as soon as possible. Now I don’t know whether he actually listened to this or if his good behaviour was because he actually remembered the moves I had performed when he was being terribly misbehaved the day before. Anyway I fear Richie might just be behaving himself to give me a false sense of security and wait for me to let my guard down before he lets rip again. But then again that could be me overrating his ability to reason slightly…

But with the riding pretty much on track I worry about everything else instead. Like is he eating enough, should I bandage him at night just in case and the never ending how many rugs in this temperature scenario. Well I have to admit that it has been suggested in the past that I need to get a life (= man) to make me stop being so paranoid about these things, but I doubt it would help very much. In fact I am sure it wouldn’t because in the last week I have actually been accused of being in love without it stopping me from worrying about whether Richie’s duvet is keeping him warm enough at night.

My only comment to these rumors is that I would not know because it has been so long since the last time I would not possibly be able to tell. What were the signs again? And although admittedly someone other than Richard has been on my mind rather a lot lately I still worry about just about everything from whether I am treating his wound right to him being happy with his companion and his digestive system working optimally. Richie’s that is.

Hello Richie - Goodbye Social Life

15. January 2007

And then Richie was back in my care. And with it my spare time, social life and French manicure went out the window. After a successful season at the racetrack he has had a small holiday and is now ready to be put back into work. Like last year I have taken on the task of getting him fit. Most importantly it gives him a chance to do something different, be turned out every day and be spoilt shamelessly by me.

I started the week optimistically trying to squeeze in everything as usual in addition to Richie’s needs. The manicure lasted about an hour, my energy for a few days and on Saturday morning my body packed it in. It just said stop in the shape of a totally disproportionate hangover.

I should have seen it coming, but as usual I was overly optimistic on behalf of own capabilities. Even in a normal week of mine Friday nights are reserved for the sofa. After this week I should have been in bed by five o’clock. Instead I went to a James Bond party. So my mistake really. Less than two hours after leaving the stables with shavings in my shoes and hair standing up on end I had managed to transform myself into a fairly respectable Bond girl. The highlight being a pair of golden shoes and a rather disgustingly spectacular white fur coat.

I don’t know whether Bond girls get hangovers like this but for their sake I hope not. On Saturday morning I felt terribly unglamorous and well just really sick. I suppose it is fair to say that I was absolutely hanging. And even the thought of riding two horses was making me feel even worse.

Richie’s timing was spot on as ever. After being reasonably well behaved all week he picked Saturday to let rip. I can safely say that it has been years since there has been so much air between me and the saddle. But I managed to stick on – the alternative was just not an option as I was already in considerable pain – and after some quite impressive rodeo moves I managed to get him almost under control.

The funny thing was that after battling the forces of Richie for a good half hour I felt much better for my hangover. Like my body realized that things could actually get a lot worse and then decided to shut up about what I had done to it the day before.

Maybe it remembered the last time I fell off a horse. It was a similar situation back in 2001. The previous evening we’d had a leaving party for Kay at Welly. It got messy to say the least, but we were as always all present on the yard at 7.30 - ready or not. Not as the case was for me. At lunchtime Nereds decided that she did not have time to ride both her horses so asked me to ride Leo whilst she rode Laskie. Although not the way I had intended to spend my lunch break – I had planned to find somewhere quiet to curl up and die – I realized there was no way I was getting out of it so I tacked up, got on and made a feeble attempt to get Leo going. Now being a horse with a considerable sense of humour I cannot rule out that Leo knew exactly what he was doing when he decided to take off down the centre line bucking and squealing heading straight for the wall. He managed to unseat me with his twisting and my brain still being paralysed by the ridiculous amount of vodka I had fed it not that many hours ago, did not manage to figure out whether he was going to go left or right. Well, Leo decided to do a hanger right and my brain opted to pass on the question, leading to me going straight and ending up hitting the sideboard rather spectacularly.

Now the only thing that did go through my brain as I crashed head first into the nice wall of the brand new indoor school was: Oh no Nereds! The thought of the possible disastrous outcome of this led to me being back up on my feet literally before I had hit the ground and had me running across the school in a desperate hunt for Leo. Images of Leo causing Laskie to dump 60 something year old Nereds and breaking every bone in her body in the process were shooting through my head as I calculated how long it would take me to get hold of sodding Leo in a 70 x 30 school. But Leo somehow restricted himself to a few joyous laps of honour. Laskie was unusually well behaved and after Nereds managed to grind to a halt he just stood there and watched Leo unfold. Leo then let me catch him like nothing had happened and look rather pleased with his achievements. Nereds took it surprisingly well and just told me to get back on. So I did - with a good hold of the curb rein this time.

Now luckily Richie does not even possess half of Leo’s talents when it comes to bucking and twisting. The main problem with Rich is that he is so small so with all 6ft of me on top I have to work a little extra to defy gravity when he starts to misbehave and with his pony back the saddle tends to slip. Leo on the other hand would buck so badly his tail would actually hit the front of my hat when he was in the right mood.

But I am sure most Bond girls have had to deal with a lot worse than a 16 hh overexcited thoroughbred with the somewhat ridiculous name Richie. It is not like I am up against Jaws or Dr. No. And at the end of the day I am the powerful one really. I have now borrowed a jump saddle, started using an anti slip pad and cut down his food. And besides, all extraordinary drinking activity is officially cancelled for me. At least until Richie is safely back with the trainer. For my safety that is.

Roadkill Dinner Party

24. April 2007

“So you’ve been doing the cooking then?” I said to Sol as we entered the kitchen and I presented her with a 3 liter bag-in-box of red wine from my handbag, a homemade cake and the Stud Muffin.

“Well, yes and him,” she patted her apron, laughed and pointed at Joe who was hovering over by the cooker. The slightly guilty look on her face suggested that he had been more than just a little involved. At least I was not the only female among my friends who was not entirely comfortable in the kitchen. Being slightly uncomfortable with the role as hostess, as well as having to speak English because of the Stud Muffin, must have been why she then just blurted out:

“Oh, and we’re having road kill for dinner!”

The following laughter killed the awkwardness about as quickly as the car must have killed tonight’s dinner. Although most of my friends are more than competent English speakers they seem to tie up when they actually have to speak it in a social setting. I was invited to a friend for dinner the other day but when I explained that the Stud Muffin was still here I got a reply saying: “Ladies only! Will reschedule next week. I can’t speak English!” Which is of course complete rubbish.

But Sol and Joe were a lot more international having both lived abroad, and they were prepared to spend the evening in English as long as there was plenty of wine involved. Hence the bag-in-box produced from my handbag. I was not something I would normally consider an appropriate present for the hostess when invited around for dinner. As it happened Sol had bought one too so it looked like we were well covered for the evening.

When we had stopped laughing about the road kill situation Sol explained that one of her friends had accidentally hit and killed the animal about to be served and had decided to take it home and fill up his freezer. For a minute the Stud Muffin seemed a little taken aback by this information. After all it was his first meeting with a Norwegian dinner party, and I don’t think that he in his wildest imagination had seen this coming. But fortunately he also appreciated the comedy value in it and was soon assured by our hostess that this was quite normal here in Norway. He also seemed relieved that we were talking moose and not hedgehog or any other rodent. So the unfortunate animal was served up without any protests, accompanied by roast potatoes and vegetables that had died of unknown causes. I mean it is not like any of us have fruitarian sympathies, but then again we would hardly be having moose if we did.

“Hunting licenses for moose are very expensive here so if you happen to hit one it’s a good thing really,” Joe explained and went on to suggest that I should try and hit a moose with my recently death sentenced car instead of just scrapping it.

From a financial point of view this was not an entirely bad idea. I would only get 1.500 Kroner from scrapping it and a large moose would probably be worth a lot more by the time you had paid for the license and how ever much they charge per kilo hunted animal these days. But considering my Nissan Micra is from 1989 and about as secure as a cheap tin can chances are it would not be great for my wellbeing to get 500 kilos of moose through the windscreen.

“The trick is to hit it at high speed because then it will fly over the car and not join you in the front seat,” said Joe whilst tucking into his very large portion of moose casserole enjoying every bit of it.

“I think I’ll pass,” I replied and took a big slug of my wine as the mere thought of going head on with a moose in my little car freaked me out. And although I enjoy moose a lot, unless I upgraded my live insurance, it would be a better option just to scrap it and get meat from the shop down the road. I am not that confident in my driving skills as far as hitting large animals correctly goes and besides the Micra would probably not even be able to knock the moose over -even if I did manage to get it up to 100 km by some miracle.

But what I have considered is signing up for this new reality program I am being told about. It’s called “Kill it, Cook it, Eat it”. That should be just up my street. So if they ever decide to do a Norwegian version I’ll be willing to reconsider my stand on reality TV. Actually I think I’ll volunteer Sol and Joe too. It could be a really good laugh. Mind you I don’t know if they’d do road kill your own moose -although it would probably make pretty good TV.

Me, a housewife?

24. April 2006

Well, I don’t think so. Not that I don’t want to, I just seem to be lacking slightly in ability.

I mean I am quite capable of cleaning the house, doing the washing and putting together well-meaning but slightly dubious looking dinners fished out of the freezer. At least the Stud Muffin ate it without too much protest. The worried look on his face must have been due to something else. And I take great pleasure from throwing dinner parties serving a very acceptable taco dinner. And although you might think that tacos are pretty idiot proof I can tell you that it is quite possible to hash it up. Just ask Kay how her ex-boyfriend reacted when he was presented with mince that had that protective piece of paper nicely baked into it. But with her being a vegetarian I suppose she should be let of. It was more disappointing when I went round another friend’s house and was served taco shells that had just been heated in the microwave –and she has two children. Disgraceful.

But before I start bashing my friends’ cooking abilities I will tear apart my own. Well it is not much to say really, because I’m pretty much just terrible. This I think is partially due to lack of training and lack of interest. My idea of dinner is something that takes about ten minutes to put together. Needless to say that does not lead me to the great culinary heights. The only thing I have been known to be able to do semi successfully it is baked goods. But then this week that went wrong too. Not once but three times. The fourth I’d rather forget about.

You see baking really has been my only claim to possessing any cooking abilities. With some real effort and practice I think I might have the potential to fairly good at it. People will think well at least she can bake if nothing else and I can live with that. While I was living and working in Denmark I actually baked quite a lot. I mean what else was there to do, the girl I lived with did not seem to posses any social skills what so ever, the rest of the work force preferred watching TV at home –alone - and I was left with my only real friend being a horse. Not great. I mean I like horses a lot but there are limits to their social skills too, although I think the stallion was fractionally better company than most of my Danish coworkers.

Living in a little Danish farmhouse surrounded by fields, daffodils and a pond with geese it seemed like the only right thing to do. So I baked. The few hours I had left in the day after the horses were happily tucked away, and the stallion double checked and pampered some more, believe it or not I spent baking. I was even quite close to cracking the dry yeast mystery by the time I left there. Who would have thought.

But back in Oslo spring 2007 my former confidence had disappeared like most men when you mention the word shopping or IKEA on a Saturday. Courtesy of Full Moon Poya Day I had a day off on a to me random Monday and after returning from doing the horses in the morning I picked up a cooking book to try and get some inspiration for dinner. The Stud Muffin was busy working away on his computer software what ever it was and after failing to come up with a fantastic dinner idea and having studied the dessert section of the book in great detail I decided to bake a cake before lunch instead. Full of enthusiasm that I rarely sport in food related matters I got going and soon the kitchen looked like it had been attacked by three-year-olds. And lots of them.

45 minutes later as I looked in the book to find out how long it should be in the oven one sentence I had overlooked threw me completely. “Pour the cake into the form”. Right, no how do you do that when you have made a dough? It did not say anything about that and the book lacked a help button for desperately inadequate housewives so I wrestled the dough out of the bowl and did my best to spread it out in the form I had carefully prepared. The result did not look great. In fact it looked pretty terrible and nothing like the photo in the book. But then I am pretty sure they even airbrush cake photos these days. I was just about to start all over again to hide my incompetence when the Stud Muffin asked how I was getting on. With a nervous laughter I said “fine” as calmly as possible when all you want to do is freak out and quickly started to cover the cake in apples before I hid it in the oven preventing him from taking a closer look.

The end result looked strange, had a slightly funny consistency but tasted nice I was assured. What else could he say, it’s still early days. Determined to do better and pretty confident I would be able to do it perfectly second time around now that I had some experience, I repeated the process a week later when we were expecting a friend for dinner. Bad to worse was never more appropriate. The Stud Muffin took one look at it and just said “So have you put the cake in there yet or what?” The cheek of it -of course it was in there! Even I knew you would never put the apples at the bottom of the form and then pour the actual cake in. But I had to admit it was pretty flat and the stubborn thing refused to rise more than maybe half a centimeter.

So rather annoyed and determined to get it right I decided on a third and then a fourth attempt the following week. Let’s forget about the third attempt, all I can say is that the Stud Muffin is not all that crazy about apple cake anymore.

Fortunately the forth time the mothership was around. Or so she thought anyway, because in my opinion it was rather unfortunate. Having heard of my struggles she was now determined to get involved and show me how to get it right. You see the mothership might not be a fantastic chef, but she sure can bake. She is one of those people who take great pleasure in whipping up the most fantastic creations on any occasion –just like that. And I’ve got to give it to her; she knows what she is doing on this one. So hell knows what happened when she made me because I sure didn’t get any of those genes.

It went well until I had put the first two ingredients in. Then I was told I was doing it all wrong. Wrong order, wrong speed, wrong measurements, wrong equipment, wrong effing everything. But I managed to keep quiet until we had at least got most of it in the bowl. Then I calmly told her to step away from the kitchen. She got the message. It could have been the dough-scraper I was waving in her direction. So she silently left me to pour it the wrong way into the wrong form and put it into the oven on the wrong tray. In fact she did not say a thing until I went to check whether it was done. Well, it wasn’t but I did it the wrong way anyway and for my information the apples were put on wrongly as well. Big surprise. I quite often find it hard to believe that she gave birth to me. That afternoon I think she did too.

But my friends loved it. Or at least they said so. And for their sake I hope they were not lying to me because I will keep serving them my apple cake on every frigging social occasion from now on until I get it right. Then I will never make the damn thing ever again. I might not have all that much housewife potential, but I can be very stubborn.