Golly, says Bloggiana. My old friend's hands are on her hips and she is standing atop the muck heap at our livery yard, looking over a winter wonderland the like of which you could not pay for in the New Forest. It is the first working day of the year and we have come to muck out our equi-beasts and Embark on a New Regime, Take Control, Think Straight and generally pay lip-service to Our New Year's Resolutions which for the moment seem remarkably sensible and robust.
Knowing Bloggiana as I do however, I have a keen sense that it is not the rime on the sycamore that is causing the old girl to mumble forth in awe, nor is it the hoar on the cobwebs that span the gates and fences like acrobats; the joyful song of the wagtail who seems to have mistaken winter for spring; the hush everywhere, the muffled windless hush resulting from our first real snowfall in twenty years. No, I have a strong feeling that what Bloggiana is reflecting on is the events that have already taken place in this short year.
Take Bloggiana’s cousin Rubirosa for example. Last year when we left her, she was Very Sad Indeed because her love life had taken an unforeseen turn; because her inner strength was at something of a low ebb; because on the other side of relentless wit and good humour lies madness and the poor darling girl had had a glimpse. This year Rubirosa cannot see that on the other side of madness lies relentless wit and good humour. She has taken to her bed and there she remains sleepless. Tears no longer come because they have dried up but her eyes hurt and her heart too.
Or take Adolesco, Bloggiana’s godson. Last year when we left him, he was rubbing his knuckles with pride because he had recently had the best of Measly Twat-Sniveller; because he had gained an all-time record high score in Wars of the Baby-Shredders; because Christmas had brought him not only hand-held devices galore but other intoxicating things like Money and several boxes of Quality Street.
This year, Adolesco has been sat down by the gracious wonderful great-aunt who had been sponsoring him through school and put straight on a thing or two.
Adolesco my dear, the great aunt found herself obliged to tell him, the credit crunch may have closed down the only shop where you can buy CDs in Fluxcombe. And it has also robbed me of all my savings. Darling one, I can no longer afford your School Fees. Adolesco – who up until this point had been looking forward to returning to school and thrashing Twat-Sniveller at the shredding game – is forced to Grow Up In An Instant. Why great-aunt, he stammers, are you sure? Tears – not huge like Rubirosa’s were last year, but small, like those of a young boy whose previously secure life suddenly looks entirely perilous – seep out of the corner of Adolesco’s bambi-like eyes. Bloggiana is there and she too has to choke back her dismay. The great-aunt wrings her hands in despair. And inwardly curses the ghosts of sub-prime past.
And it is not only Rubirosa and Adolesco who are forced to stare into the long distance of the winter wonderland and question what on earth life is all about. The ghosts of sub-prime past have long tendrils, long indeed and they seem intent on re-shaping all of us. Our Dog, for example, has already moved from Family Value meat-style dog food to Special Crunch-busting stuff which is so far removed from anything meat-style as to be almost worthy of a Tommy Cooper routine. Nag and Dobbin, our beasts who are in part responsible for the muck-heap atop of which Bloggiana still is, are faced with the very real possibility that at £35 per bale, haylage is more than they will be allowed in future. Last year it was £25 per bale. And that was stretching it, says the Yard Owner. (I should explain that if hay = prosecco, haylage = krug, the gold-top of hay, the platinum credit card of hay. Haylage is the cocaine to hay’s tobacco – and like all such pleasures is one that Nag and Dobbin will struggle indeed to relinquish.)
So Bloggiana, I say (all the while noticing a small rim of rime accumulating on the mid-life whiskers of her top lip), golly what? The Old Girl turns to me, steam rising around her as last year’s digested haylage and this year’s winter wonderland atmosphere make contact. Golly and Fuck-a-Doodle, comes the reply. It’s a fucking mystery to me, Bloggiana adds. And at this, she shifts her weight slightly.
And the vapours she triggers into the upper air could be those of the Delphic Oracle herself.
Adolesco my dear, the great aunt found herself obliged to tell him, the credit crunch may have closed down the only shop where you can buy CDs in Fluxcombe. And it has also robbed me of all my savings. Darling one, I can no longer afford your School Fees. Adolesco – who up until this point had been looking forward to returning to school and thrashing Twat-Sniveller at the shredding game – is forced to Grow Up In An Instant. Why great-aunt, he stammers, are you sure? Tears – not huge like Rubirosa’s were last year, but small, like those of a young boy whose previously secure life suddenly looks entirely perilous – seep out of the corner of Adolesco’s bambi-like eyes. Bloggiana is there and she too has to choke back her dismay. The great-aunt wrings her hands in despair. And inwardly curses the ghosts of sub-prime past.
And it is not only Rubirosa and Adolesco who are forced to stare into the long distance of the winter wonderland and question what on earth life is all about. The ghosts of sub-prime past have long tendrils, long indeed and they seem intent on re-shaping all of us. Our Dog, for example, has already moved from Family Value meat-style dog food to Special Crunch-busting stuff which is so far removed from anything meat-style as to be almost worthy of a Tommy Cooper routine. Nag and Dobbin, our beasts who are in part responsible for the muck-heap atop of which Bloggiana still is, are faced with the very real possibility that at £35 per bale, haylage is more than they will be allowed in future. Last year it was £25 per bale. And that was stretching it, says the Yard Owner. (I should explain that if hay = prosecco, haylage = krug, the gold-top of hay, the platinum credit card of hay. Haylage is the cocaine to hay’s tobacco – and like all such pleasures is one that Nag and Dobbin will struggle indeed to relinquish.)
So Bloggiana, I say (all the while noticing a small rim of rime accumulating on the mid-life whiskers of her top lip), golly what? The Old Girl turns to me, steam rising around her as last year’s digested haylage and this year’s winter wonderland atmosphere make contact. Golly and Fuck-a-Doodle, comes the reply. It’s a fucking mystery to me, Bloggiana adds. And at this, she shifts her weight slightly.
And the vapours she triggers into the upper air could be those of the Delphic Oracle herself.
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