HotToTrot
Well-Known Member
I wouldn't be able to tell you how I knew. I did know, though; I normally do. I normally know and I'm normally (implausible though it may seem, under most circumstances,) right. I suppose it's an instinct developed by years of riding around the marshes of East London. It's a pattern that my subconscious has built up, the ability to recognise the body language, the near-invisible signs, to read them correctly, and to know. I saw the dog well before it saw me. It was some way off and it was snuffling at the grass, off the lead. I didn't like the look of it. It looked alert, interested, and fast. As I was still a fair distance away, I thought that perhaps I could get out of sight before it noticed me, so I trotted on up the hedge line. It noticed me. It froze, for a fraction of a second and then, ears flat to its head, legs working in frenetic pairs, it was at P(C)arrot's heels, barking and snapping. P(C)arrot broke into a canter and I let him go. He's not the most relaxing horse to take on a hack at the best of times, and I figured that if I could maintain some forward momentum, then I would at least keep some form of control. Add to which, there was a chance that the dog would lose interest if I just kept going - they sometimes do. As I neared the end of the marshes, though, I realised I had trapped myself. A train line ran in front of me, a wire fence to my left, a concrete path to my right. Turning back the way I had come would excite the dog still further and now, as P(C)arrot, plunging and leapt, I knew I was living on borrowed time. It happened quickly. Even as I slowed P(C)arrot down to consider my options, the dog overtook me, leapt up at P(C)arrot's chest and my horse span round, depositing me on the floor and belting off, stirrup leathers flapping.
I rang the yard. "He's coming back in" I said. "Please could you come out and get him?" Then I stomped off across the marshes to the dog owner. He started to apologise, but I cut him off.
"Not good enough." I said, curtly. "Really. Not good enough." What's your name?
"My name?" he said. "I'm not giving you my name."
"You were completely out of control of your dog", I said, "and I am going to report you. What's your name?"
"I'm not telling you my name!" he retorted.
"WHAT IS YOUR NAME?" I barked (snappily).
"Ok, ok," he huffed, it's [Donald Trump]. I pawsed to think for a second.
"What's your number, [Donald]" I asked, doggedly determined.
"My number?" he asked, surprised. Then he said (slightly bitchily) "You can't have my number."
Now, I wasn't looking my best. I had helmet hair. I was covered in mud. I'm not particularly attractive at the best of times. But come on. Never, in the early hours of a weekday morning, my clothes a state of disarray, my dishevelled appearance testimony to the vigorous exercise I've been undertaking, never in those circumstances have I been met with such blatant, outright rejection when I've asked a man for his number.
I repeated my question. He started to reel off his number. At this point, I have to admit, I was feeling a bit smug. I'd struck the right balance; firm enough to get what I wanted, dispassionate enough not to let it escalate. Well played, me. Except, you've spotted the flaw, haven't you? This is me. There's no chance of me coming out of this without making a fool of myself and, sure enough, as soon as I tried to take down his number, I fumbled about in a slightly inept manner, failed completely to put his number in, and dropped my phone in the mud. My composure shattered, my upper hand completely lost, I squelched my phone out from the mud of Walthamstow Marshes and then, shamefaced, my steely voice and hard eyes disappearing entirely, I said. "Erm, sorry, uh [Donald], would you remind repeating that for me, please?"
After all that, P(C)arrot had some heat in his leg, so we withdrew from Poplar.
Then we traipsed three hours due west for The Dressage Test Formerly Known as Gatcombe. After all the showjumps blew over in the wind and the event was abandoned, we traipsed three hours back home again.
The next weekend, we traipsed three hours due east to the Land of the Inbreds. To absolutely everyone's astonishment, the dressage judges quite clearly know a fellow Inbred when they see one and, as a mark of solidarity with Inbreds near and far, they gave me a sub-40 dressage mark; the first recorded instance of such a thing in the history of the P(C)arrot/Inbred relationship. The judges weren't the only ones exhibiting some odd behaviour that day. As I raced around getting ready to walk the XC, my mother wandered up.
"I do like this one, Viv", she said. "He's much nicer than some of the ones you've had, seems ever such a nice horse." I stared at her. My mother has never knowingly liked a horse in her life. "Is he called Cabbage, this one?" she continued.
"Cabbage?" I replied, startled. "No. No, mum, he's not called Cabbage."
"I thought he was named after a vegetable," she mused. "Onion?"
"NO! I yelled. No, my horse is not called Onion!"
"And, is he six?" she enquired.
"Are you still talking about my horse?" I said, nervously. <<Yes, he's six and I took him two-star last year as a five year old....And he did his first Advanced when he was one...>> "No," I smiled. "Bit older." And with that, I ran away, leaving the small child with my mother and taking only husband and baby with me.
When I got back to the trailer, my daughter was sitting on Parrot-Carrot-Cabbage-Onion, whilst my BFF tried to talk her daughter (my god-daughter) into having a turn. "NO!!! Shrilled my small thing. "It's my hat!" Emily can't wear my hat! Parrot's my pony!"
"Rosie," I chided her, you can share. "Please would you give Emily your hat, and let Emily have a turn on Parrot?" My husband removed Rosie's hat. Rosie started to cry. Beside me, my god-daughter began whimpering.
"Oh, look", I said. I need to showjump in about three minutes. Everyone moved off to the showjumping. I still had just about enough time, but I was going to need to get a wriggle on, so I finished tacking up and went to grab my hat. The car was locked. I sighed, tied P(C)arrot back up and trudged over to the showjumping. There, my husband prowled the far side of the warm up, waiting for me to arrive. I waved, trying to get his attention. Nothing doing. I jumped up and down. No acknowledgement. Finally, after an array of charades depicting an inebriated goblin with a sparse knowledge of semaphore, I managed to catch his eye. (Which is more than I can say about [Donald Trump].
"What do you need?", he asked, realising instantly what had happened.
"My hat..." I said, slowly. "And the car key."
As I made my way back across the lorry park for the 59th time, I started to feel the fear. I'd had a bit of a funny jumping session before Burnham Market, where some old habits had crept back in and I'd been a fool, causing my poor horse to stop. I have a new theory on my many mistakes, though, (I'll bore you with it another time) and now I knew that I needed to put it behind me and to man up. So I manned right up, I rode on in and my super horse jumped a perfect clear round. Suddenly, the long journey, the child hat-swapping dilemma, the cancelled Gatcombe, the Poplar that wasn't, the rejection by [Donald Trump] all of that faded into oblivion as I cantered out of the ring, so thrilled with my horse (and with myself, for managing not to be an idiot).
The XC rode well, I took some tight-ish lines and we came back clear. Next I'm off to South of England! Oh, no, wait, I'm not. That's been abandoned too.....
I rang the yard. "He's coming back in" I said. "Please could you come out and get him?" Then I stomped off across the marshes to the dog owner. He started to apologise, but I cut him off.
"Not good enough." I said, curtly. "Really. Not good enough." What's your name?
"My name?" he said. "I'm not giving you my name."
"You were completely out of control of your dog", I said, "and I am going to report you. What's your name?"
"I'm not telling you my name!" he retorted.
"WHAT IS YOUR NAME?" I barked (snappily).
"Ok, ok," he huffed, it's [Donald Trump]. I pawsed to think for a second.
"What's your number, [Donald]" I asked, doggedly determined.
"My number?" he asked, surprised. Then he said (slightly bitchily) "You can't have my number."
Now, I wasn't looking my best. I had helmet hair. I was covered in mud. I'm not particularly attractive at the best of times. But come on. Never, in the early hours of a weekday morning, my clothes a state of disarray, my dishevelled appearance testimony to the vigorous exercise I've been undertaking, never in those circumstances have I been met with such blatant, outright rejection when I've asked a man for his number.
I repeated my question. He started to reel off his number. At this point, I have to admit, I was feeling a bit smug. I'd struck the right balance; firm enough to get what I wanted, dispassionate enough not to let it escalate. Well played, me. Except, you've spotted the flaw, haven't you? This is me. There's no chance of me coming out of this without making a fool of myself and, sure enough, as soon as I tried to take down his number, I fumbled about in a slightly inept manner, failed completely to put his number in, and dropped my phone in the mud. My composure shattered, my upper hand completely lost, I squelched my phone out from the mud of Walthamstow Marshes and then, shamefaced, my steely voice and hard eyes disappearing entirely, I said. "Erm, sorry, uh [Donald], would you remind repeating that for me, please?"
After all that, P(C)arrot had some heat in his leg, so we withdrew from Poplar.
Then we traipsed three hours due west for The Dressage Test Formerly Known as Gatcombe. After all the showjumps blew over in the wind and the event was abandoned, we traipsed three hours back home again.
The next weekend, we traipsed three hours due east to the Land of the Inbreds. To absolutely everyone's astonishment, the dressage judges quite clearly know a fellow Inbred when they see one and, as a mark of solidarity with Inbreds near and far, they gave me a sub-40 dressage mark; the first recorded instance of such a thing in the history of the P(C)arrot/Inbred relationship. The judges weren't the only ones exhibiting some odd behaviour that day. As I raced around getting ready to walk the XC, my mother wandered up.
"I do like this one, Viv", she said. "He's much nicer than some of the ones you've had, seems ever such a nice horse." I stared at her. My mother has never knowingly liked a horse in her life. "Is he called Cabbage, this one?" she continued.
"Cabbage?" I replied, startled. "No. No, mum, he's not called Cabbage."
"I thought he was named after a vegetable," she mused. "Onion?"
"NO! I yelled. No, my horse is not called Onion!"
"And, is he six?" she enquired.
"Are you still talking about my horse?" I said, nervously. <<Yes, he's six and I took him two-star last year as a five year old....And he did his first Advanced when he was one...>> "No," I smiled. "Bit older." And with that, I ran away, leaving the small child with my mother and taking only husband and baby with me.
When I got back to the trailer, my daughter was sitting on Parrot-Carrot-Cabbage-Onion, whilst my BFF tried to talk her daughter (my god-daughter) into having a turn. "NO!!! Shrilled my small thing. "It's my hat!" Emily can't wear my hat! Parrot's my pony!"
"Rosie," I chided her, you can share. "Please would you give Emily your hat, and let Emily have a turn on Parrot?" My husband removed Rosie's hat. Rosie started to cry. Beside me, my god-daughter began whimpering.
"Oh, look", I said. I need to showjump in about three minutes. Everyone moved off to the showjumping. I still had just about enough time, but I was going to need to get a wriggle on, so I finished tacking up and went to grab my hat. The car was locked. I sighed, tied P(C)arrot back up and trudged over to the showjumping. There, my husband prowled the far side of the warm up, waiting for me to arrive. I waved, trying to get his attention. Nothing doing. I jumped up and down. No acknowledgement. Finally, after an array of charades depicting an inebriated goblin with a sparse knowledge of semaphore, I managed to catch his eye. (Which is more than I can say about [Donald Trump].
"What do you need?", he asked, realising instantly what had happened.
"My hat..." I said, slowly. "And the car key."
As I made my way back across the lorry park for the 59th time, I started to feel the fear. I'd had a bit of a funny jumping session before Burnham Market, where some old habits had crept back in and I'd been a fool, causing my poor horse to stop. I have a new theory on my many mistakes, though, (I'll bore you with it another time) and now I knew that I needed to put it behind me and to man up. So I manned right up, I rode on in and my super horse jumped a perfect clear round. Suddenly, the long journey, the child hat-swapping dilemma, the cancelled Gatcombe, the Poplar that wasn't, the rejection by [Donald Trump] all of that faded into oblivion as I cantered out of the ring, so thrilled with my horse (and with myself, for managing not to be an idiot).
The XC rode well, I took some tight-ish lines and we came back clear. Next I'm off to South of England! Oh, no, wait, I'm not. That's been abandoned too.....