Some people call their house Dun Roamin’ to sum up their state of mind. After ten weeks ministering to my horse’s tendon strain, I’m thinking of putting up a sign outside my house saying Dun Bandagin’.
Wrapping Darcy’s front legs painstakingly morning and night for several months has been an interesting experience. In a way I shall miss it because it has taken me out of my own worries, apart from the main one, which is sinking into horse-induced poverty after attempting to train Darcy for the racetrack.
I’ve said it before, or if I haven’t I ought to have: a thoroughbred is like a Porsche 911 — when it’s going well you think it’s the only car in the world it makes any sense to own.
Why would anyone not sell their home and live in a ditch or indeed live in their 911 in order to own a 911? Surely even thinking of driving anything other than a 911 is the very definition of insanity because the 911 is so good?
But when the tiniest thing in a 911 goes wrong (I am reliably informed, because while I’ve driven one I’ve never owned one), you stop thinking it’s the best piece of design engineering to grace God’s earth and you fall to your knees crying out to the ghost of Ferdinand Porsche for mercy: ‘In the name of all that is holy, help me!’ you beg.‘For
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