Horse Tales.

I took a stroll up the lane again this evening to take Rosie an apple. She’s currently domiciled in a long, narrow field on the other side of a small wood, and every time I’ve been to visit her she’s been at the far end. It’s meant that either I’ve had to walk the length of the field to give her the apple (or carrots), or she’s had to make the long trudge to come and fetch it (or them.) Tonight she was standing by the fence, watching me and puckering her lips.

‘Good heavens,’ I thought, ‘Rosie must be psychic. She knew I was coming.’

I liked that thought. But then I had a different one:

‘I do hope she hasn’t been standing there waiting for me since the last time I came.’

I didn’t like that one.

But at least the raging toothache that’s been bringing me down all week has been easier today. And it rained a little, but not enough to make the trees cheer. And I saw Janet riding her big-but-handsome brute of an equine companion through the village. She stopped and said:

‘Hello. I’m Janet.’

‘I know,’ I replied (I don’t remember how many times she’s told me her name is Janet. I think she’s a bit vague, poor thing, a fact which she hides with a permanent smile.) 'Do you mind if I make friends with your horse?’

‘Not at all. He likes to stop and talk. (She’s the second person who’s said that to me. I suspect it's a characteristic of Shire women.) He’s a bit like me, really.’

Oh dear, best make a hasty retreat. And so I did. (After having first made friends with the horse, of course.)