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.

The Stud Muffin Goes Equestrian

22. April 2007

It was bound to happen. He had to get on a horse at some point. But contrary to popular belief it was his idea, not mine. I was of course very excited by this development and did my best to facilitate his request. My only mistake was that I really should have known better than to use the mare.

Now you could argue that this early in a relationship this kind of development would be only due to a wish to please the other party and not a genuine desire to take up horse riding. But there was actually more to it than that. Because as it happens the Stud Muffin’s best friend is an equestriman, the married but believed to be gay type, and they took riding lessons together when they were about six. The Stud Muffin had a fairly short career on horseback but Adam went all the way and made it his living. So for his birthday this year he has decided to take his mates for a riding/camping/drinking trip somewhere in the UK and with the Stud Muffin being quite the competitive type he does of course not want to be the incompetent one.

So on his first morning with me it was decided that he would come with me to do the mare and I suggested that we could take her for a little walk in the woods with him on top. With Bellis being eight months pregnant and only in light work I did not think it would be a problem. I was wrong. Very wrong.

The sun was shining, the birds had come back out to play after a long winter and we slowly made our way up through the woods. Me on foot trying not to slip on the still ice covered path, wishing I had studs like Bellis’ to keep me safely on my feet.

Despite the wishful thinking it did not take very long before I fell flat on by back. Or that is strictly not true because I always seem to take most of the weight on my right side. This time I also hit my elbow right at the nerve centre, leaving me on the ground pretty incapacitated seeing little white lights. Bellis then seemed to decide that with me out of the equation it would be quite ok for her to break into a trot and head for home. Luckily the Stud Muffin managed to stop her and turn her around. But our luck ended there.

Now, and this is where I made the real mistake, instead of letting him lead Bellis back to the yard I insisted he should get back on. This went well until I had to let go of her again and step onto the side to avoid another fall on the slippery slope coming out of the woods. Bellis must have decided this was her last chance for some action before it was all about babies and motherhood and quickly broke into a trot, fell into canter and then picked up speed as she reached the road back to the yard. An ex-racehorse will always be an ex-racehorse and Bellis had obviously just remembered her racing days. She was going flat out.

There was nothing I could do. It must be the worst feeling in the world. Standing there knowing it is all out of your control, yet your responsibility. As they disappeared out of my view I decided there was only really one option. Run. Run as fast as I possibly could after them. The fear easily overruled the pain in my hip as I too picked up speed down the slope and legged it towards the yard. The pictures going through my head of the damage I could encounter the other end was the only thing that kept me going. They had to be ok. Although saying that, at that precise moment in time the mare’s health was way down on my list of priorities, foal and all, after all she was the one to cause this mess. I just prayed I had not broken the Stud Muffin completely.

Turning the corner I found an empty front yard. Just as I was about to panic even more fearing that Bellis had decided to keep going down the road I spotted the two of the just inside the stable doorway. The Stud Muffin was standing up, nothing appeared to be broken and he was being taken care of by two of the 14-year-old pony girls who had just witnessed his flying dismount. The thing was he stayed on all the way back to the yard and they fell of as Bellis slowed down and decided to do a hanger right to get into the stables. But he was okey. I honestly can’t remember the last time I felt so happy and so guilty at the same time.

In the end my bruise was actually bigger than his. And at least he could tell the boys he had galloped on a real racehorse and then crashed spectacularly. I once again had to explain my limp with “I just fell over”. Seriously, I am getting old.


Just for the record: He went on to have a private lesson with me on a more suitable mount the following week without any drama. In fact he seems to be a bit of a natural. And after the riding/camping/drinking trip he actually requested jump lessons.

Top Ten

2. March 2007

Ok, so maybe I was a bit harsh on us. So here it goes, proper Letterman style:

Top ten reasons to date a horsey girl

10. You don’t have to worry when she is down the yard, the few men that will be there are all
gay anyway.

9. You have the perfect reason to buy a bigger car as it will be better for pulling the horse
trailer.

8. You will never hear the words “Darling I think we should take up a hobby together!”

7. She is used to heavy lifting, shit shoveling and hard work so can be quite useful around the
garden.

6. There are always plenty of young girls in tight leather seated breeches around the stables
when you have to come along.

5. She will be more than happy for you to indulge in male activity like watching football and
scratching your bollocks as it makes her feel less guilty for being at the stables.

4. She is used to animal behavior.

3. She owns a wide variety of leather accessories like long leather boots, spurs and whips.

2. She is used to being on top.

1. No matter how bad wind you have the horse is guaranteed to out do you.

That's better. Did i forget anything?

Living in Wheat Free Horse Hell

27. February 2007

“I am living in special flour hell,” my male friend rather abruptly broke off the girls’ excitement over his girlfriend’s wheat free buns that were being passed around the table. When I finally stopped laughing –yes I felt just slightly hit by his outburst - he had one piece of advice for me.

“I would keep very quiet about this wheat free thing Hilde. For a long time. In fact until you have a ring on your finger is probably safest,” he said causing the rest of the room to roar with laughter too.

“If I had known the implications of this I would have reconsidered my position for sure!” he added and smiled lovingly at his girlfriend despite the punches now coming his way.

Well in my case it’s a bit late for that. Despite being miles away from a ring on my finger I came clean pretty much straight away. I am not very good at withholding the truth or marketing myself if you like. My strategy is pretty much what you see is what you get. But as much as I intend to keep up my wheat free regime I also intend to make it as uncomplicated for those around me as possible.

But I noted that despite his girlfriend’s decision to ban wheat and her love of horses, which was equally incomprehensible to her other half, they were still together. We all have our things. But I do realize that the combination of the two is possibly not most blokes idea of fun.

“You need to find a man who either rides himself or who really understands what horses are all about. Or one who plays golf, because then they don’t tend to mind as much,” one of the married ladies at the stables told me one evening as we were still playing around with our horses at nine o’clock. Unlike me she had a man waiting at home so knew all about how difficult this could be.

“Whatever you do, don’t try to hide how much time it takes,” she continued as we laughed about the realities of it all. As much as I would be the first to prioritize the horses when I needed to I also realized how this could become a potential minefield in a relationship. There had to be a certain degree of give and take.

But anyone who knows me from before the wheat ban can testify that I am much better for it. It’s a small sacrifice considering the effect it has had on my health. And as far as the horses go I am afraid I am just addicted. But again as far as addictions go it could be a lot worse…

It's Amor

11. February 2007

I have to admit that when we bought Amor last autumn I had not heard of his sire. But when Kay told me that Harm reckoned Rousseau would be the next big thing I knew better than to question it. A few google efforts later I had learned that Rousseau was a stunning young promising Ferro offspring.

So although my knowledge of Dutch bloodlines is not that great at least I know when to take a good advice. And the way things have turned out it looks like it was good advice indeed. Last year the champion of the KWPN stallion licensing was Wamberto, a big bay Rousseau/Voltaire. And this year it was Zagreb, another Rousseau (Jazz) that won. This little beauty was then sold at the KWPN Select Sale Auction for 430.000 euro! The funny thing is that the buyer was Blue Hors stud.

So although our little prospect is currently going through the ugly growing stages that most two year olds do, judging by the family connections he should turn out pretty decent. By next spring we should have a fair idea of what we have got on our hands, which is terribly exciting…

In the meantime I found Andreas’ ride on Matine from WEG on YouTube. Seeing it I am so upset I did not go to Aachen, I clearly should have taken Kay's advice on that as well...
You have got to give it to Andreas, he is bloody good! What can I say… just enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKQgTiqhPbw

Of Course I Know it All

28. January 2007

“So what part of don’t leave a mare in foal out for eight hours in -12 degrees do you not understand?” When the welfare of someone I love is compromised I tend to get a bit shitty. My not even 48 hours old instruction to bring her in at lunchtime was obviously forgotten and that on one of the coldest days so far this year.

I know I might come across as if I think I know it all, and that chances are I don’t, but for the love of common sense is a little brain activity too much to ask for?

Well obviously it is. Now I could have been horrible and indicated that little miss shit for brains should seek a less challenging job at some supermarket –preferably as a cleaner or bottle recycling girl or something – but I chose to be reasonable and just point out to her that I would quite like to avoid the mare getting ill and the fetus dying. You see if they seem to have difficulty remembering instructions experience shows that they normally remember screaming, at least for a while.

But the thing is that I would much rather she made some decisions every now and again rather than just blindly follow instructions. Because there are certain factors that are out of anyone’s control and requires that the person present at the yard adjusts accordingly. A well considered decision will go down much better with me than mindlessly following some instructions that don’t make sense in the given situation. Like when it is -15 degrees and snowing sideways you might take the horses in a bit earlier. Incidents like the one we had back in the autumn when it had rained heavily all day and I arrived at six o’clock to find a soaking wet mare out in the field shivering in the dark does not leave me very hopeful though.

But it is just not good enough.

Now, knowing that I am a bit of a control freak and having been at the receiving end of many a psychotic horse owner’s crazy ways in the past, I try very hard to be nice about it. But I have to say I find it extremely difficult. And it is not like I belong to that category anyway!? I just happen to have extensive experience myself, leading to me knowing better most of the time. So she should actually listen very carefully to my input and make some notes or something or whatever it takes for her to remember things for more than 2 minutes.

Maybe I will just send her one more text and tell her that from the office window it looks a bit windy so she ought to keep an eye on Richard so he does not charge around like he sometimes does in this kind of weather. Oh and to double check whether the mare is warm enough. And she best makes sure that Richard’s carrots I put in his feed last night are not frozen before she gives him his lunch…

That should not be too much to ask right?

Safety Issues

21. January 2007

With the temperature going below zero comes the bad behavior. I find myself spending large amounts of my teaching time actually riding. Not only because I am cold, but because the horses are being fresh and difficult. The other day the girl I was teaching was literally climbing off the horse as soon as I got in the school.

It being Sunday I had hoped to avoid the scenario of having to get down to any physical activity. Not quite an on-the-fence-day, I was nonetheless not terribly keen on riding. But something in the girl’s eyes told me the horse probably needed some sorting out. So I borrowed her far too small hat, put my far too large boots in the stirrups and got on trying not to split my far too tight jeans in the process. Well far too tight for riding anyway, for the dinner I was going to later they were perfect. With her pink stick in hand, matching the pink numnah, I must have looked like the world’s biggest pony club’er with my hair in a rather wild pony tail in a desperate attempt to control last night’s hair style after sleeping on it. I am all for colour coordination but this obsession with pink at the age of 17 can’t be healthy.

But the girl was right, her horse was being silly. Nothing shocking but enough for it too need some tuning in. So I got going and having got the trot under control I put it into canter waiting for it to let rip. But it was being quite well-behaved actually so I relaxed and did some circles. One minute I was happily cantering along and the next I had to throw all my weight to the left to avoid ending up underneath its stomach as the saddle slipped around. Luckily the brakes worked and I managed to grind to a halt before gravity did its bit and placed me upside down between the legs of a cantering horse.

So something tells me it would probably be a good idea for me to have a little look in one of my old BHS teaching manuals one of these days. More specifically the chapter about safety. I seem to remember that is says something about checking the tack for a start. Then there was that bit about a properly fitted hat, not just somehow strapping on the one you pupil happens to be wearing, if putting on one at all. I used to be quite amused by the bit about suitably clothing with drawings showing how your jacket should not be restricting the movement and so on. But in this part of the world you have to weigh that up against freezing your tits off - and I know what I choose. Breeches are preferable though, rather than too tight designer jeans, as you should never underestimate the advantage of a full leather seat when things go a bit wrong. And after my rodeo performance on the insane trotter I should at least remember the bit about big enough stirrups for a while –or just start wearing my moonboots, as in the unlikely event of leaving the saddle involuntarily at least they come straight off your feet and you avoid being dragged around the school. Even if it would leave me rather ungracefully in just my socks.

But still teaching in winter is tricky here on these latitudes as first priority is not freezing to death. Therefore I doubt I will give up great big jackets, warm totally unsuitable footwear and woolly hats until we’re writing at least April.

So I think I will just start with double checking the girth for now.

Words of Advice

10. January 2007

“You should never run after the bus or the boys Hilly,” my granddad always says. Never having been one for doing either I had never really taken in the importance of his wisdom. But I can safely say that after last summer I will definitely think twice before ever attempting either again.

The boy episode was just a standard girl wants boy- boy does not give a shit kind of deal. So as usual girl got a grip and moved on. It is never a good sign when you have to chase them anyway. Then the summer moved on as well and I found myself in different hunting fields altogether. The truth is I was mainly in fields actually, the proper muddy ones, but then I have always been better with the horses.

The bus episode was a lot worse. I was actually left with a rather unattractive scar from it. I was having an unusually busy week at work and on Friday morning I tried to do a hundred meter sprint along the main road at 06.36 in the morning. In hindsight I see that it was not a great idea. But there I was running like I very rarely do with my handbag in tow and my skirt pulled up and the buss driver, bless him, decided to stop and wait for me. Luckily he didn’t pull over into the bus stop but just stopped and blocked the traffic, because as I had only about ten metres left and crossed the road behind the bus I went flying. Properly flying, as in all six foot of me ended up sprawled out in the middle of the road between the bus and a rather amused driver in the car behind. There wasn’t really anything there to trip me up so I think my lack of fitness just got the better of me and my feet just failed to pick up as instructed. But some sort of survival mechanism must have kicked in quite instantly because I somehow got myself off the ground and into the bus with all my belongings rather quickly, despite having taken most of the weight on my already dodgy knee.

I made it to work with what was turning into a rather bad limp, having purchased plasters for my knee and a coffee for my nerves. A quick inspection revealed that apart from my bleeding knee and sore hands there was not one stain on me. Unbelievable. Being dressed in white from top to toe it was some sort of miracle really.

The morning was spent wrapping up a delegation that had visited us for a week and I didn’t even have time to sit down until after lunchtime. That was when I realized that I had actually split my skirt right up the back. The stitching had given in and left me – well with a split that would have made any stripper blush. And I thought people on the street were staring because I was limping so badly.

So as usual the lesson was learned the hard way. But I have actually started to listen a little more carefully to granddad’s many words of advice. Although I don’t quite know where never use force, after twelve belongs to tomorrow and always buy Mitsubishi cars will leave me…

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas Orgasm

6. January 2007

Although we are now well into January I still have an unopened pack of Christmas cards in my handbag. The purchase was a result of bad conscience spurred by actually receiving quite a few Christmas cards this year. But to tell the truth I knew full well that the chances of them actually being written and sent on time were slim to none. At least I am ready for next year, because chances are they will still be at the bottom of my bag in November.

As usual I had great ambitions of being very organised for Christmas this year. Everyone was going to get nice thoughtful presents and I was going to have a relaxed gay old yuletide for once.
Last year I came back from a riding/working- and drinking- holiday in the UK late on Little Christmas Eve and just had time to throw a dress in a bag and go off for family commitments on the 24th. The majority of my presents were bought in Heathrow and I spent most of the time between Christmas and New Year trying to catch up on sleep in various family settings. But this year it was going to be different. Cards would be sent, presents nicely wrapped, the house decorated, Christmas carols played, nice fires built and the Christmas spirit retrieved.

First the snow didn’t come. Then the horse got a bad back, I over booked my teaching and inspiration for the personalized Christmas presents refused to come. And when I finally decided to make a DVD slide show for my former housemates from our time living together the computer kept crashing and leaving me back at scratch. A few desperate shopping attempts gave little results –well few presents anyway, but I seemed to end up with all sorts of stuff for myself… Not very Christmassy somehow. So December had not managed to do anything about my selfishness this year either.

With increasingly bad conscience I threw myself into the shopping frenzy for real on the 22nd of December in between teaching and massaging the horse to try and at least ease her pain. There was just not time for the Christmas service I had planned to go to, but I managed to get the mare some Christmas carrots and clean the house for my grandparents without leaving work too early.

But what really annoyed me was that on top of everything some spaced out idiot has decided that on the 22nd of December everyone should have an Orgasm for World Peace at 4 o’clock in the afternoon. I would like to see the person who had time for that… I did not quite catch how everyone having orgasms would help world peace, but it all sounds a bit selfish to me. Anyway, at 4 o’clock I was queuing in a completely overfilled shop trying to stop myself from hitting the woman who had just pushed her way into the queue in front of me. Certainly not my idea of a good time. And I could not see anyone else who were anywhere near an orgasm either.

It was a bit like the Credit Card Free Day they launched the first Saturday in December. Like that was going to happen. Or that whole Fuck for Forest business a few years ago. But not as bad as when Sharon Stone cried for all the poor people in the world when hosting the Nobel Peace Prize ceremony, after spending 300.000 Kroner on furs in Oslo a few hours earlier. "Just 27 dollars is enough to change someone's life," said Sharon with tears running down onto her Valentino dress. It’s actually legal to use your brain every now and again. Well at least it made my underwear purchase seem rather insignificant.

But despite ending up buying all the rest of the presents in one shop rather randomly and very last minute, not finishing the DVD and failing to have an orgasm at 4 o’clock on the 22nd to secure world peace, Christmas came and went and it was a pretty good one too.

Happy New Year anyway. I will definitely send everyone cards next year. I promise!

Sewage Situation

18. December

“Have you got your wellies on?” my sister was clearly holding back the laughter now.
“It was a bit late for that when I was standing in it up to my ankles in just my socks…” I looked down at my now bare legs.
“Uh, do you know what kind of bacteria is in that?” her voice was a mixture of laughter and disgust now.
“Well, excuse me for not expecting to be ankle deep in sewage water when entering the bathroom. I don’t normally wear protective footwear to brush my teeth,” although very aware of the comedy of it all I was not quite ready to laugh about it yet.
“So you are standing in it now?” more giggling followed along with a running commentary to her by the sounds of it equally amused friends the other end.
“Well I might as well, it is too late anyway. And someone has to clean this mess up and I happen to be the only one here.” House sitting had suddenly into my worst nightmare and I just wished myself far far away.
“Have you told mum and dad?”
“No, I didn’t want to ruin their holiday just yet”
“I am so telling them first!” beep beep beep, and she had hung up on me.

When I lived with my sister Helene, my cousin Phil and friend Kris the only thing we really ever fell out over was the cleaning of the house. Normally it would start with me accusing them of doing f-all in the house compared to me. Then I would prove my point by demonstratively starting a cleaning frenzy leading to the rest of them having to help out. This strategy normally worked a treat until they felt they had been sufficiently punished and had restored the balance by some reluctant hovering or other contribution and they all turned on me for revenge. It would normally be triggered by me cleaning the bathroom without gloves or even worse by me cleaning the toilet brush holder. My housemates, apart from Kris who new better and stayed well out of it, would be more upset by this than by the house not being cleaned for three weeks. In fact they were really freaked out by it.

“What do you mean you cleaned the toilet brush holder in the sink?” Phil was rather flustered all of a sudden. For being such a messy dirty sod he was surprisingly worried about bacteria.
“Yes with bleach, would you rather I just left it in the corner?”
“But in the sink? Uhhh,” Helene was equally appalled.
“And then I cleaned the sink too!” In my opinion this was a bit rich coming from someone who allegedly had not cleaned the house even once while I was working in the UK all last summer. Rumor had it it took all three of them half a day to get it clean enough for them to dare pick me up from the airport.

Phil’s bacteria phobia was so strong it was out of the question to even consider touching the toilet without rubber gloves, when it was being cleaned anyway, strangely enough he didn’t normally wear gloves in there.

It was during one of these heated discussions that Phil actually said to me:
“If I had to marry you I would have become a wife beater!”
Well I don’t think so. I so would have killed him first! Besides luckily the family ties rule out anything like that anyway.

But the whole toilet brush discussion seemed a bit trivial now as the toilet brush was actually floating around in sewage water in the bathroom. It was twenty passed eleven at night and I really wanted to be in bed, but something told me that wouldn’t happen for a while. As tempting as it was to get out of there, close the door and hope it would just go away, I had a feeling I would regret it in the morning. So I went and got the dustpan instead and started scooping the water into a bucket –I had to get it out somehow.

Nearly two hours later when I found myself in the garden scrubbing myself with washing-up liquid and some other evil looking cleaning detergent under the hosepipe in a desperate attempt to disinfect myself, three things struck me:

1. That I was pretty happy we don’t have any neighbours that side of the house…
2. That outdoor showering in November is not something I would recommend
anyone…
3. That if this had happened to poor Phil he would have had to cut his arms and legs off…

The Right Kind of Wrong

11. December 2006

Less than a week after I used all my diplomatic powers to tell the poor owner of the good-for-nothing-trotter that she should get rid of it, she did. Result. The world is a safer place and I am rather pleased with myself. Well technically not I suppose as the damned thing is still alive, but I am sure the safety of horse hugging maniacs who dedicate their lives to retraining trotters don’t count as much as the safety of slightly overweight young girls who have been fooled into buying a pet that could potentially kill them and anyone else unfortunate enough to get in their way .

I have encountered quite a few clients with a varying degree of unsuitable horses. And many times I have in disbelief tried to figure out just why they choose to spend so much time and money on something that will never be even remotely decent, but I have to say this is the first time I have just said: Get rid of it!

Because in most cases with some time, patience and hard work it is possible to improve things quite drastically. What I have also learned is that people want different things from their horses. A horse that to me is a waste of space could be ideal for someone else and I always try to keep this in mind when assessing horse/rider combinations. Unfortunately due to the poor breeding program in this country there is a desperate lack of good quality normal hacks for bad riders. Come to think of it there is also a desperate amount of bad riders. So these people tend to end up buying very cheap horses straight off the racetracks. This could be a complete waste of money in the case of ex-trotters or just damn right dangerous when it’s a tree-year old thoroughbred ending up in inexperienced hands.

One former client of mine went for the racing fit thoroughbred, and it literally ended with death and destruction. For all I know she could have been a decent rider in her youth, but having now turned into an overweight single mother approaching forty with serious mental issues and a tendency to drink alcohol first thing in the morning, her general fitness was not great and her riding, well it was even worse.

She purchased the horse after her shrink had convinced her to take up a hobby following the decision that her son would now live mainly with the father. Now I don’t know the details of it, but I have understood that in general it is not a good sign when the mother looses custody. My lessons with her consisted mainly of us chatting and me trying to find some exercises for her and the horse to do that didn’t scare me to death. It can be quite terrifying to watch when you know that the situation has potential to get seriously out of control. But in general it went really well, we had some progress from week to week, they stayed in the school, she stayed on and was really enjoying it. But then the mare, although highly strung, was surprisingly easy to train as long as it was kept busy. They seemed to bond somehow, but with them both being psychiatric cases it was probably a good match.

But then after about six months she stopped having lessons altogether, in fact I suspect she struggled to even get out of bed for her morning drink, and the horse was just hacked occasionally by some of the girls at the yard. Then one night it went terribly wrong. So say the mare saw another horse in the distance, must have thought she was back on the racetrack or something because she bolted blindly down a main road. After narrowly escaping a car the girl on top decided her best option was to throw herself off into a ditch, which was good thing really as the horse ended its days going through the front of the number 32 bus a few kilometres down the road. Apart from the bus driver getting the shock of his life when half a ton of horseflesh hit his windscreen, no one was injured, which was just plain luck really.

So the other piece of advice I gave the poor girl with the trotter last week was to be very honest about the attributes of the animal she was trying to get rid off. Normally I would not recommend a sales add that included the words dangerous, evil and totally unpredictable, but in this case it was better to cover one’s back completely to avoid any responsibility in the event of future incidents. So now Trotting Bitch from Hell has been re-homed with someone who specialises in retraining trotters, whatever that means. Good luck to them and happy recovery I say.

I have also asked her to please contact me before buying a new horse. She might not realise this herself, but she needs a completely bombproof weight carrying munter. It is all about finding the right kind of wrong. I am still working on how to put this across to her though.

Barbeque Time

07. December 2006

When you tell people you do horses there are three main reactions:

“Oh really, that is so sweet” Which really means: Here we go again, she is one of those pony patting vegetarians with horse posters on the wall who smells of farmyard animals.
or
“Oh really, that is so nice” Which really means: So you haven’t got a life then but how nice for you to have a hobby like that. Right where did that one with the big tits go?
or
“Oh, cool, do you have one of those leather whips then?” Which really means …. well actually I don’t know as after I have replied “of course I have, and I am not afraid to use it” it is normally time to move on or I fear I might get involved in something I would rather not.

But some of us don’t come into the first two categories; actually none of my horsey friends do, because I hate that crap as much as everyone else. And as for the third I can only speak for myself when I say that I have never really taken to that sort of thing.

A friend of mine was well impressed to learn that at the yard I used to work we had a big staff barbeque with one of our four legged friends on the menu - if you see what I mean. The fact that the horse in question –or in a rather nice marinade as it happened- had belonged to the owner of the yard and upon its death was cut to pieces by a member of staff and a livery owner around the back of the stables, only added to the value of the story. But he found that as he told this story to his other friends -they just didn’t believe him. The image of a group of horsey people sitting on a terrace enjoying horse steak on a summer evening after finishing a day at the stables just didn’t ring true. It was bloody good meat though.

But a lot more shocking than horses being part of the food chain is some people’s spaced out relationship with their pets. The mare was spending a few months on grass at a yard up in the valley with some other horses this summer. One evening when I came to ride I went down to get her and found a dead horse lying in a pile of blood at the bottom of the slope. Its hind leg was pointing out in a rather unusual angel and it turned out it had slipped and broken it rather badly so they had had to shoot it. Sad but I suppose it happens, and frankly it was a skanky old trotter anyway. But the owners were of course devastated, they had owned it for nearly two decades and despite the questionable quality of it, I suppose you get attached to them.

But after all the teenage girls at the yard had cried and cried some more and the horse was trotting happily around in horsey heaven or something, it was the practical aspect of getting rid of the damn thing. It turned out there was only one guy picking up dead horses and he only drove past Oslo once a week. But through pulling some strings it was organised to have it picked up the next day and taken to the glue factory, as it was not ideal to have a carcass that size lying in the middle of the field in the sun for very long.

The only problem was that by then the owners had decided they would really like to cremate their much loved pet, instead of just sending it to the glue factory. As for what would possess you to think it’s a good idea to cremate a whole horse I don’t know, but they insisted on this –until they were presented with the costs. £ 4000. This must have struck them as overly costly for old horsey’s funeral so they opted for a cheaper way to lay it to rest. They asked the local vet if he could cut the head off for them so they could just cremate that.

The vet is a very sober-minded man who I have never even seen raise his voice at anyone, but when presented with this, he actually flipped. After telling them just what he thought about the idea he finished off by telling them to give the money they obviously were so desperate to part with to the children in Africa or something because the head would stay on.

In the end horsey was driven to the animal hospital downtown where the head was cut off and the heart cut out, before the rest was sent on to the glue factory. They then paid to have the heart and head cremated and put in a nice shiny urn.

Now, despite my weakness for a good barbeque, at the end of the day I probably wouldn’t want to eat my own horse. But I sure would not want it on the mantelpiece either.

Hanging - On

03.12.2006

So I complain about getting older. Each time autumn comes around I start worrying about my lost youth or whatever. Last year I narrowly avoided a crisis by buying the shortest skirt in the shop to make myself feel better. This year I decided that that was a very immature way to deal with it, so didn’t in the end. Besides I was skint and as I have never been able to pull of wearing cheap looking miniskirts I figured it was better to leave it. But September turned October and my favorite club was still a dump, I was still far too drunk and my friend Tanya was still a great laugh. So despite my fear of the opposite the world kept turning and nothing changed really.

Come to think of it what I should be complaining about is why I never learn. Why I never change a sure to fail formula. I should know by now that it is not a good idea for me to drink a bottle of wine after having skipped dinner, never mind two, not have any water the whole evening and then turn the heater on full before I go to bed - still wearing a jumper and my boots. What is an even worse idea is to then have booked in five riding lessons from midday on Sunday and have left the car the other side of town. Still I do it again and again.

But to my defence at least I always make it there more or less on time and teach to the best of my ability, although the quality might be slightly reduced by the fact that it hurts to speak. And despite my dislike towards people who teach whilst sitting on the fence I have got to admit that on rare occasions I find myself doing exactly that. It might look unprofessional, but it is a lot better that passing out in the middle of the school.

On these occasions I always find myself thinking about that time Petchie and Adam where teaching a kiddies group lesson each in the big indoor school at Welly. Halfway through the lesson when Petchie looked over to the other side of the school, probably to check Adam’s ass out, he realised that all he could see was Adam’s legs sticking up in the air from behind the mounting block where he had been sat nursing his hangover and calling out the odd “change the rein” and “heels down” a few minutes earlier. Whilst the ride kept trotting around the track and the parents were still smiling at their young hopefuls from the grandstand seemingly unaware of the half dead instructor in the corner, Petchie managed to as discreetly as possible make it to the other side of the school and fish his sleeping drinking buddy up into a vertical position so he could continue the lesson.

As I was having an on-the-fence-Sunday I should also have known that riding would not be a very good idea. But then the girl was terrified and the damn thing about to launch her off quite spectacularly. So when she nearly fell off for the second time and started crying only five minutes into the lesson I felt like it was the easiest option after all. It was her first lesson with me and in my experience the ones who fall off in the first lesson rarely come back. Besides, telling her to be firm and consequent with it really wasn’t getting us anywhere. So I laced my big winter boots up and mounted this particularly vile version of a warmblood trotter now turned riding horse. Or actually I take that back, there is no way you could call it a riding horse.

Having forced my boots into the far too small stirrups I asked it to walk forwards on a half long rein. This quite modest request in my opinion resulted in it reversing 50 metres whilst kicking out at my leg and then at my stick as I got my wits back and started beating it. The more I beat it, the faster we went –backwards. Then when we finally hit the fence and it was forced to go forwards, it started bucking. It has been a while since the last time I sat on something so intent to dump me and it was certainly a long time since someone who wasn’t going to give in had sat on Trotting Bitch from Hell. It took me about 20 minutes of rodeo performance to convince it that when I asked it to go forwards - I really meant it! Then I spent another 20 minutes on it -mainly trying to figure out the nicest possible way to tell the girl to shoot it.

In the end I told her it was not the horse for her, in fact not for anyone, and that her suggestion of giving it away to some horse-huggers who are stupid enough to spend their time retraining trotters was the best idea I had ever heard. Despite the hang-over I refrained from saying that personally I would have shot it and spent the meat money on something nice. She had already cried once that day.