Take Tiger to the riding stables.
Here, have pictures.
Doubtlessly delighting any passer-by who hankers after tales
of mane nuzzling and hoof picking. But for me, ankle-deep in horse
shit, enjoying it all not so much, aka, suffering.
my way of thinking, small, fat-bellied short-legged ponies with
attitude who scowl and snort until you reluctantly give them a polo mint
are equally as bad as tall haughty horses who look down their noses at
you, and if they consider you at all, it is to briefly assess how
inconveniently lumpy you will be as they trample you face down into the
stable yard. Which they will do shortly, so fuck off out the way.
Of course Tiger is not of my type. She loves it all. Small,
fat, bad-tempered types and indifferent, superior types alike.
try and arrange a marriage for her to a stables owner, so if there is
any passer-by who is in the happy position of having a junior to inherit
your generous stables (plus horses), and the junior looks like a
horse, talks all day about horses, and doesn't bat an eyelid when I
leave the room to go and read a book because horse worship may just kill
me, then get in touch. We can marry yours to mine most successfully.
In more important news, I have a potato-related vulnerability.
I come to this conclusion as I am researching lucid dreaming (I have a notebook commission to do).
This morning, as I lie sleep-wakeful, fearful of missing the early start for the stables, I dream.
I am staying in a hotel but am completely naked as I arrive in my car to go to my room. This is shaming for me, obviously, so I try and bluff it out, pretending nakedness is normal in this modern day and age. I then attempt to behave even more normally by shoving a plastic bag containing peeled potatoes under the bed in the room I have occupied. While totally naked I am pushing the plastic bag under the bed, but it won't fit, thanks to other people leaving their belongings under the bed before me. (Annoying.) The next people who are due to occupy the room enter, and behave very courteously towards me, while I go round the room (clutching my bag of potatoes), collecting all the other things I cannot hide, like Shark's art projects which have mysteriously appeared on the widow ledge.
When I look up my dream of nakedness and potatoes, I reason the most suitable explanation is my fear of exposure. If Elibee and Mr W come round to dinner, I will be shamed by my lack of cooking repertoire (yes, at the moment it is mostly potatoes). I shall tell them, better make it the Indian take-away, like normal.