Friday, 9 April 2010

Pathetic


My darling Tiger. Today we collect you from your stay at the stables, to bring you home.

I don't think you want to come home with us. What tells me? Maybe it's the look of shock mixed with misery that crosses your face when you see my ancient mother carcass slowly dragging itself across the field.

My advance towards you comes as the steady beat of the tolling hour. Your shoulders sag and your heart heaves. Your time here, at the stables, has ended.

Here it is heaven. Here you are surrounded by keen, sharp-eyed girls who leap on horses. Spontaneous with life-spark, they up and bounce and stride and play as if this stable yard were a mere continent: a small skip away to the wide grass waves of galloping fields, where you can all frolic wild with horses.

For this week, you have joined these joyous people and their bright horse ways, and I know from that look of bewilderment that you forgot about us; enough not to send us a postcard from heaven.



Later, you will sit sullen in the car, or at home, misty-eyed and far away. I will jolly you along with prospects of return. And of your lesson - two weeks is nothing! - but you already miss the smell of Dust and Star and Mars, and yearn to be back here again.

If I could, I would use that. I would look at you, all fixed eyes and steely resolve. I would say Hey Tiger! Let's talk business! You want horse. I want maths worksheet. Let's cut a deal!

Of course I won't, because I am in thrall to your mournful eyes and shiny bottom lip. I know, compared to horse, that for you I am inadequate. Mother love now is nothing. Without silky mane and prancing hooves, I cannot measure up.

Weakened at heart, I search for the single glimmer of advantage, to plead, Tiger! Come back to me! Sure, horse can take you to the stars, but look! Horse cannot cook pasta.

Do not let this daughter thief near a saucepan.
If you do, I am done for.

5 comments:

Rachel M. said...

Awww, poor girl! I can see this is not a passing fancy.

sharon said...

Oh dear, usurped by a horse!

Did the bedrooms alterations meet with any approval?

MadameSmokinGun said...

Without seeming unsympathetic - I am SOOOOO glad our horse related antics (antics? freezing cold grim-faced plodding) - were short-lived. Is it wrong for me to have taken such delight that the big 2 both fell off after enough weeks of this hell and cried next time they sat on a fat fetlocked four-footed freak? I could go home and never EVER come back! Yeay!! Freedom!!!!

They can nervously poke carrots at their Grandad's driving pony thing instead with a nice wire fence thing in between them. That now does the job.

Mr G Pants was unfeelingly pleased they plopped off onto the hard stinking ground too - he had years of deadly horse shows every weekend as a kid. There are thousands of miles of video tape to prove it. And THAT expression on his face - not far away misty eyes or sparky joyous sensual freedom - his face said - I will one day wreak my revenge on you and produce horse-hating children to come and visit you and trample on your dahlias. In the meantime bring me loud music, women and drugs.

He was true to his face. They all love the chickens, and the dogs and the pigeons and the fish and the tadpoles etc. The horse gets pointed at. Bit like me.

Angela said...

Research says that horses are the in-between love for young girls, between dolls and guys. Sometimes it`s true, sometimes not. With me, it was true. But it came back when my husband bought us two horses!

Grit said...

you are right rachel, let this be a warning! keep your lovely daughter away from horse!

sharon, better than expected, mostly because i played safe and did not touch her super secret stuff stash (under the bed). shhh! don't tell her i know!

mme sg, i felt the same relief when the poncey ballet ended. those classes brought out the anarchist in me. i wanted to bring cockroaches in my pockets and let them free under the piano.

eek! angela! that is a scary thought. you mean - gulp - next will be unsuitable BOYS? but they will have to cross the motherline.