Saturday, 8 December 2012

There are limits, apparently

Inevitably, to the new stables. Recommended to us by a fellow home educator; one who owns a similar horse-stolen daughter to Tiger.

Get them together, and this pair of horse-turned juveniles are obviously demented. Within seconds they are hopelessly absorbed in conspiratorial whisperings of polo mints and hoof picks.

The young woman/horse slave standing at the wooden board in the cold shed who ticks Tiger's name delightedly and withdraws money from my purse for more horse nuts promises they can meet Tiger's wishes for hacking and horsing; they'd be perfect, no problem! Just ask, whatever it is!

Okay then, I want you to air-lift a horse outside of Tiger's bedroom window, stick jingle bells on it, and wave it about come Christmas Morning. Then give her the horse to cuddle, ride, stroke, nuzzle its mane and plait its tail. By the way, you pay all fees, bills, invoices and expenditures for vets, shoes (day wear and evening), little rooms with straw, big rooms with carpets, glitter for arses, then add saddles, reins, hats, wings and ballroom gowns. Forever. And ever.

See? I doubted you would make that particular Tiger wish come true.

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