THE LAST MISSED SATURDAY OF 2007 Posting from Dublin Airport, in the shockingly revolting Ryanair wing, bracing myself for the riot to board the plane, off to London for the weekend.
I will, of course, miss the horses tomorrow, but it’s good to take a break, somewhat in the same way I’ve gotten better after each fall. But with less chance of a broken bone.
Oops, shouldn’t talk about breaking anything, should I?
Superstitious, that’s me. When I had my big fall off Delilah [see forthcoming Fall the Third], I knew for about two hours before I even got to the stable that I’d be hitting the dirt that night. The books would say that’s creative visualisation in action– and I expect one or all the authors who espouse this notion would tell me to cop on and think good, as opposed to crap, thoughts!
Well, I believe in CV [just did that, intellectual property!] and I believe I could have created the atmosphere in which to take a tumble, but I’m also alive to the reversely psychological potential of this concept, so if I keep talking about cracked ulnas then, hey, I won’t get one.
I’ve always been like this, so it’s not the horse’s fault. When I worked in theatre [puff, puff] this sort of propitiation to the gods took on a fever pitch, to the extent that I had to exit the subway at the same exit every night of the run of a show or else… or else. You know! Or else!
My talismen are few: I have a flat piece of turquoise in the pocket of my jods, along with a few coins that presented themselves on the ground at my feet in a moment that seemed ripe with symbolism. I think it amounts to 52 cents. And I’m assiduous in ensuring that I’m loaded up with Polo mints for the fortunate gelding or mare who was my companion for the hour. I don’t fret too much about lucky socks or knickers or anything like that, but I’ve gotten kind of panicked the once or twice I thought I lost my crop…but that’s a story for another time, I’m running out of loose change…