War Horse

The publicity about the Spielberg film, War Horse, nudged my memory and I have spent several days searching for an old green school exercise book in which I wrote the poems I composed as a child. At last I found it, having unearthed several useful things in the process such as a box of printer cartridges and a Sim card reader (which doesn't work, worse luck, as Mr G is right in the middle of trying to swap my contacts from my old Nokia to the new HTC smart phone he gave me for Christmas, and is currently admitting defeat).

My mother, who was born in 1908, learned to ride on cavalry horses, as the man in charge of them at the local barracks was sweet on her. When I was 11, my Auntie Edie gave me the money for ten riding lessons, and my mount was a grey cob called Bob, an ex-cavalry horse who, on decomission, had been bought for the local riding stable, which was run by hatchet-faced Miss Fitzpatrick, who wore her black hair scraped severely back into a hairnet and was always immaculately turned out in a well-fitting black riding jacket, cream twill britches and spotless boots.

Bob was by then in his thirties, quite old in horse years but he still had a gallop or two left in him. Somewhere in my storage unit I have a photograph of me riding him in Sefton Park, Liverpool, accompanied by Miss F on 16-hand-high Patch and another pupil on little 13hh Sugar Puff, which was published in the Liverpool Echo newspaper. If I ever find it, I shall show you. The riding school horses and ponies were all greys. I fell in love with horses, but was always a little scared of them and lacked the talent of my sister, who occasionally comments on this blog under the name of Merrylegs. As soon as she had somewhere to keep one, she bought her own horse and currently rides a gorgeous mare called Millie. Who, coincidentally, is grey. The equine wheel comes full circle.

The reason I was searching for the book was because I felt sure I had written a poem about Bob the cavalry horse, and indeed I had done, when I was 15. Here it is.



                 TO BOB

Does he ever think back to the days of old,

The old grey cob in the cobwebbed stall?

Can his eyes recollect all the scarlet and gold?

Do his ears still ring to the bugle's call?

He blows at the oats and he lips at the hay.

His tail flicks idly, his eyes half-close.

The white-haired cob, once iron grey,

Sways in a memory-clouded doze.

Saddle-less, riderless, galloping hard,

The grey cob joins in the victory ride.

Faintly through memory, battle-scarred,

The ones who lived and the ones who died,

Dream-hazed horses come cantering back.

The silver bugle rings strident and clear

O'er the scarlet-rimed field. Rifles, whiplashes crack

And the thundering cannons boom loud in his ear.

His head droops lower, his nostrils twitch

And a restless hoof stirs up dust in the straw...

But the sound of footsteps and swish of a switch

Blot out his dreams of the years before.

Saddled and bridled he stands in the yard

While the tight strap wrinkles his whiskery nose.

The riding instructress, with voice loud and hard,

Shouts out commands and obedient, he goes.

A very Happy Christmas

Despite my fears and worries, I had a fabulous time over Christmas. Mr Grumpy did the turkey, I did the veg and two friends of his came for Christmas dinner. As they are both Israeli Jews, I was slightly worried that they wouldn't 'do' Christmas, so I carefully wrapped their gifts in plain gold paper and put Happy New Year on the labels. That went down fine, as did the food and wine.

Mr G and my sister went completely mad, buying me tons of wonderful things - a smart phone, a gorgeous silver-green fleece, a purple watch, perfume, some of my favourite  Burts Bees products... I felt quite humble unwrapping parcel after parcel. I haven't got Mr G his 'big present' yet as he wants an expensive electric razor but said I should wait for the sales - which are now on, but he hasn't told me the make and model number yet.

In the evening, we visited his friends with the five boys. I'm delighted to report that the 2-year-old is back to his normal boisterous self, plaguing the daylights out of his siblings and the long-suffering Husky dog (which is the same age as him and weighs 13.5 stones).

It was also lovely to see our next door neighbour out of hospital at last and back home in time for Christmas. He still has a long way to go in terms of mobility. He can only look straight ahead, can't move his neck left or right, and can't raise his arms very high, but somehow he managed to make 16 full-size Christmas cakes to give to all the medics at two separate hospitals who have helped him so much over the course of this year. Now that he's back, we don't see nearly as much of Chi Mimi, but I did find her in a yoga pose the other day, in a cat bed in the corner of our lounge, snugly sandwiched between two radiators. Cats pick all the comfiest spots, don't they? I hope that you all had a lovely time over Christmas, too.

What is the point of a sprout?

I wrote this just now, after preparing a mountain of the things! Enjoy your Christmas dinner, one and all!

SPROUTS

What is the point of a sprout?

While they’re cooking, they stink the house out!

But we buy the green horrors every December

And cut little crosses (that’s if we remember),

Then boil them or cream them,

Cremate them or steam them,

Add herbs or a paste

To disguise their vile taste.

We make sure we’ve got plenty

And hope they’re ‘al dente’.

In a dish they are plopped

With some holly on top.

They’re now so good-looking

That we’re proud of our cooking.

Then we hear the shouts:

“No thanks. We hate sprouts!”

So – what is the point of a sprout?

I think that the jury’s still out.

Today's horoscope

My Rick Levine horoscope for today reads:

Your world may seem a bit surreal now because you're able to see further into your future as the Capricorn New Moon stirs your 11th House of Hopes and Dreams. Fortunately, you can use your imagination to create the next phase of your life. Although you might be tempted to lose yourself to fantasies, you can improve your chances for success by being practical while developing your vision of tomorrow.

And it gave me an idea. My poor friend Louise Cooper, who I still miss dreadfully, was a fantasy writer but it's a realm of writing I have never entered. So why don't I try? Perhaps this horoscope is giving me a message, a sign for the New Year. I feel my imagination stirring already!

Molly is wearing for Christmas...

... a pretty, sheer black kaftan with silvery embroidery, over a black t-shirt with silver sequins on the neckline. Both from charity shops. Aren't I lucky having such good charity shops nearby!

The Last Straw!

I received one of those brown envelopes in the post that you know never bring good tidings. It was my tax bill. They want £3000 by the end of January. It can't be right, as I only earned £9,000 last year, but if it is correct, bang goes my hope of a dental implant! Oh, Happy New Year!!!

The tooth saga continueth...

I visited the dentist on Wednesday. The verdict was an infected root (again!) and she gave me a prescription for Amoxicillin, the antibiotic I can't drink alcohol with because it causes stomach pains and nausea. (Not Ampicillin, I got that wrong.) She suggested I doubled the dose for the first two days, i.e. 2 pills three times a day, as she had prescribed the 250 mg version rather than the stronger 500 mg, then cut down to one three times a day for the next three days, making a 5 day course in all.

An hour after taking the first double dose, I felt sick, cold and wobbly. Thinking it was just stress due to being told that the cost of root canal treatment by their specialist was £795, I ignored it and took the second double dose at 9 pm. We had an overnight visitor who I was looking forward to sharing a drink with, but not only was there no alcohol, there was no sleep, either, as I got the stomach pains, nausea and diarrhoea without a drop of booze having touched my lips, and was trotting to the loo all night.

I dozed off around 4 am and started awake at 6.20, having remembered that Mr G had 2 tons of logs being delivered at 7 am and our visitor had parked right on the spot where they were due to be decanted. Could I ask her to move her car, I wondered? I listened at her door but she was snoring peacefully. I then woke Mr Grumpy, who was EXCEEDINGLY grumpy. I felt our friend's coat pocket and her car keys were in it, but he reckoned he could manage.

The logs turned up bang on the dot and were almost decanted onto her bright green Smart Car, which would have turned it into a squashed Kermit. Then the bin men came, then the recycling lorry, and I went back to bed feeling like death, with a bucket next to me just in case, as I felt so sick.

A friend of Mr G's, hearing my tale of woe, suggested calling my GP to see if she could prescribe a different antibiotic. I did that but they said I must ring the dentist and ask what she would recommend. Erythromycin. I have to ring after 2 pm to find out if the GP has agreed to give me a prescription.

'What shall I do if it flares up over Christmas?' I asked the dentist. Why do these things always happen on Bank Holidays? The problem with the tooth above, which was removed last month, started on Good Friday two years ago. 'Ring me,' she said. Come on! How could I ring her when she'll be with her family eating Christmas dinner? I'd rather call one of those 24 hour emergency clinics, even though she told me not even to think about it! In fact, I'd rather call any big, strong, male dentist right now and ask him to use the strength of his mighty forearms and muscular fingers to whip it out in one minute flat, rather than have that woman spend 3/4 of an hour ripping my head off like she did last month and then charge me £250 for the privilege.

One way or another, I am thoroughly dreading Christmas.

PS The tooth is now throbbing quite nastily. Not bloody fair!