HotToTrot
Well-Known Member
I think I have a fairly high threshold for the ridiculous. I'm mainly undeterred by minor inconveniences. But this one, this one really had me scratching my head and somewhat in despair. The entries secretary was great. "Sure", she'd said, when I called her after Brightling had cancelled, "No problem, I can give you a space in the two-star, but I can't offer you a stable, as we're booked up." "Great", my husband had said, when I'd told him. "I'm off to Japan for a week, though, so I won't be back in time to come with you".
To summarise, I had a pony, two small children, nowhere for any of them to stay, nobody to look after any of them whilst I looked after the other and, as my husband so helpfully pointed out, a place in the two-star competing against all five members of the GB squad for the Rio Olympic Games. I took a deep breath. This was do-able, this was do-able, this was do-able. If I wanted to do it, then it damned well would be do-able and I just had to find a way to do it.
The plan evolved through several permutations, but eventually I settled upon the following. The kids' nanny would come with me to the yard and have the kids whilst I rode Vito and got P(C)arrot ready. Together, we would drive to Barbury, where I would do my dressage. My in-laws would then drive up from Cornwall and, phone reception being non-existent at Barbury, would meet the kids and the nanny at the secretary's tent at 5.30. Father in law and baby would drop our nanny to Swindon station, from where she would catch the train back to London, mother in law, daughter and I would drop P(C)arrot at his stables, and all of us would convene at a hotel that was slightly over-priced and not particularly convenient. Now the only question that troubled me was which of my nanny, my in-laws and my three-year old daughter actually knew the least about horses.
When we arrived at Barbury, I discovered that it was approximately the size of a small continent. I'd allowed plenty of time, and I didn't hang around when we got there, but still I found, after I had collected my number and established that the dressage was 56 miles from anywhere else, that I was running short on time. My three year old daughter had clearly realised that neither our nanny, nor her baby brother, nor indeed she, were particularly to be trusted around horses, so she clung instead to me, weaving around my legs and hanging off my boots/ "Rosie", I'd chided her, "I need to get ready for the dressage. Can you go and get a hoof pick for me?" "Mummy!!" she screamed, distressed, "Mummy! I want a cuddle! Mummy, no, don't get your saddle, mummy no, mummy...." As I wrangled child, saddle and hoof pick all in the confines of the back of the trailer, I inevitably shut the lid of the tack box onto her fingers. It's a light, plastic lid, unlikely to do any damage, but it was enough to set her off. She howled. Time was running out, now, and I was torn. Comfort the child, or get on the horse? Obviously, I did what any good, loving parent would do; I fished a tenner out of the depths of my pockets, thrust cash and kid at much-maligned nanny, yelled instructions to resort to bribery in form of nearest available ice cream, and rode off on my horse.
Now, as we all know, geography is not my strong point. But even I had reluctantly realised that Barbury was not all that far from Nunney. And there was therefore a significant danger that I could well find myself trotting back down the centre line, straight into the watchful gaze of Jane Holderness Roddam. As I circled the arena, therefore, I was on high alert. I passed the judges' car at E, leaned stealthily up P(C)arrot's neck, craned my head round and peered distrustfully in through the windscreen, eyes darting back and forth, lest Jane Holderness Roddam be hiding, unannounced, behind the sun visor. No Jane Holderness Roddam. But it wasn't over yet. Last time, I'd found her at C. I trotted on past C. Leaned forwards again. Scrutinised the inhabitants of the car at C for tell-tale signs of a lurking Jane Holderness Roddam. Again, no Jane Holderness-Roddam. I relaxed, sat up, entered at A and then, quite frankly, I very much wished that I had been judged by Jane Holderness Roddam, by her clone, by her imaginary pet guinea pig and/or by her long-lost aunt. Because any of those, any of them, would almost certainly have given me a better score than the one I received at Barbury that day. For anyone who has not read my other post, I am pleased to announce that P(C)arrot and I scored a personal best of 39%. I'll say it again. THIRY-NINE PER CENT.
Well, some comfort was to be had when I drove back to the event the following day. The parking steward, at least, had not heard tell of my awful dressage escapades and did not appear to Know Who I Was. Looking sceptically at the beaten up, ageing Chelsea Tractor and the even more beaten up, eve more ageing, trailer, he said immediately: "Hunt Scurry? Parking's that way."
"Um", I said, slightly sheepishly, "No, I am actually here for the two star."
"Oh," he said, his surprise palpable, "well, then, this way, please."
By the time I got to the SJ warm up, any shred of dignity that I may once have possessed had evaporated into oblivion, along with the ability to score above a 5 for any movement in the dressage, so I didn't even pretend. I went straight to the nearest unsuspecting spectator that I could lay my hands on, asked whether they knew one end of a practice fence from another, and promptly dragged them into the warm up to do my fences. Our round felt fine, he was uncharacteristically polite and jumped well, and we had a slightly annoying two down.
IT support crew, I throw myself on your mercy:
http://s1362.photobucket.com/user/V...70_4934896785500781961_o_zpsegphedk9.jpg.html
To summarise, I had a pony, two small children, nowhere for any of them to stay, nobody to look after any of them whilst I looked after the other and, as my husband so helpfully pointed out, a place in the two-star competing against all five members of the GB squad for the Rio Olympic Games. I took a deep breath. This was do-able, this was do-able, this was do-able. If I wanted to do it, then it damned well would be do-able and I just had to find a way to do it.
The plan evolved through several permutations, but eventually I settled upon the following. The kids' nanny would come with me to the yard and have the kids whilst I rode Vito and got P(C)arrot ready. Together, we would drive to Barbury, where I would do my dressage. My in-laws would then drive up from Cornwall and, phone reception being non-existent at Barbury, would meet the kids and the nanny at the secretary's tent at 5.30. Father in law and baby would drop our nanny to Swindon station, from where she would catch the train back to London, mother in law, daughter and I would drop P(C)arrot at his stables, and all of us would convene at a hotel that was slightly over-priced and not particularly convenient. Now the only question that troubled me was which of my nanny, my in-laws and my three-year old daughter actually knew the least about horses.
When we arrived at Barbury, I discovered that it was approximately the size of a small continent. I'd allowed plenty of time, and I didn't hang around when we got there, but still I found, after I had collected my number and established that the dressage was 56 miles from anywhere else, that I was running short on time. My three year old daughter had clearly realised that neither our nanny, nor her baby brother, nor indeed she, were particularly to be trusted around horses, so she clung instead to me, weaving around my legs and hanging off my boots/ "Rosie", I'd chided her, "I need to get ready for the dressage. Can you go and get a hoof pick for me?" "Mummy!!" she screamed, distressed, "Mummy! I want a cuddle! Mummy, no, don't get your saddle, mummy no, mummy...." As I wrangled child, saddle and hoof pick all in the confines of the back of the trailer, I inevitably shut the lid of the tack box onto her fingers. It's a light, plastic lid, unlikely to do any damage, but it was enough to set her off. She howled. Time was running out, now, and I was torn. Comfort the child, or get on the horse? Obviously, I did what any good, loving parent would do; I fished a tenner out of the depths of my pockets, thrust cash and kid at much-maligned nanny, yelled instructions to resort to bribery in form of nearest available ice cream, and rode off on my horse.
Now, as we all know, geography is not my strong point. But even I had reluctantly realised that Barbury was not all that far from Nunney. And there was therefore a significant danger that I could well find myself trotting back down the centre line, straight into the watchful gaze of Jane Holderness Roddam. As I circled the arena, therefore, I was on high alert. I passed the judges' car at E, leaned stealthily up P(C)arrot's neck, craned my head round and peered distrustfully in through the windscreen, eyes darting back and forth, lest Jane Holderness Roddam be hiding, unannounced, behind the sun visor. No Jane Holderness Roddam. But it wasn't over yet. Last time, I'd found her at C. I trotted on past C. Leaned forwards again. Scrutinised the inhabitants of the car at C for tell-tale signs of a lurking Jane Holderness Roddam. Again, no Jane Holderness-Roddam. I relaxed, sat up, entered at A and then, quite frankly, I very much wished that I had been judged by Jane Holderness Roddam, by her clone, by her imaginary pet guinea pig and/or by her long-lost aunt. Because any of those, any of them, would almost certainly have given me a better score than the one I received at Barbury that day. For anyone who has not read my other post, I am pleased to announce that P(C)arrot and I scored a personal best of 39%. I'll say it again. THIRY-NINE PER CENT.
Well, some comfort was to be had when I drove back to the event the following day. The parking steward, at least, had not heard tell of my awful dressage escapades and did not appear to Know Who I Was. Looking sceptically at the beaten up, ageing Chelsea Tractor and the even more beaten up, eve more ageing, trailer, he said immediately: "Hunt Scurry? Parking's that way."
"Um", I said, slightly sheepishly, "No, I am actually here for the two star."
"Oh," he said, his surprise palpable, "well, then, this way, please."
By the time I got to the SJ warm up, any shred of dignity that I may once have possessed had evaporated into oblivion, along with the ability to score above a 5 for any movement in the dressage, so I didn't even pretend. I went straight to the nearest unsuspecting spectator that I could lay my hands on, asked whether they knew one end of a practice fence from another, and promptly dragged them into the warm up to do my fences. Our round felt fine, he was uncharacteristically polite and jumped well, and we had a slightly annoying two down.
IT support crew, I throw myself on your mercy:
http://s1362.photobucket.com/user/V...70_4934896785500781961_o_zpsegphedk9.jpg.html
.
dare I ask what quite happened?
