Unless you've been living in a box in a field for the last six weeks, it can't have escaped your notice that we are in a countdown to an election.
In days gone by I have been very politically active. When I lived in London I lived in the house of the Conservative Sub-Agent for Putney. I put leaflets through letterboxes and canvassed people on their opinions and which way they were likely to vote. It was very interesting and you had to be quite brave, even in a Tory stronghold, but I found more and more that I wanted to say to people, "Vote for Jesus, it's the only way we're ever going to make the slightest bit of difference." I've met quite a few MP's and on the day of the election, the house was used as a headquaters for people to drop in during the day. I was there doing some calculations when suddenly the light was blocked from the doorway. I looked up and realised I was in the hallowed presence of... Jeffrey Archer. He'd just dropped by to rally the troops. A hush fell on the company present. He was a really nice bloke, actually.
Some years later, when Mr O and I had met and married, daughter 1 rushed in from school one day and declared that we must all 'vote for a conservatory.' Mr O and I heartily endorsed this and were disappointed that the election came and went, but no conservatory was forthcoming.
The same daughter also came in one day singing, 'Golden Brown' by the Stranglers, but she'd misheard and thought it was 'Gordon Brown, texture like sun...' I wish I'd trained my children to listen better.
They obviously get it from me. A while back I was listening to the radio when the newsreader declared that Dale Winton was going into hospital for a heart operation. It was only when they described him as the former president of America I realised she had actually said it was Bill Clinton.
All I really want to know is, will the Conservatives repeal the Hunting Ban? Yes there are more important issues afoot, but as a country loving girl, this question is close to my heart. I read on another blog that the Tories don't consider this a vital issue, but to many in rural areas, it certainly is. I can't find anything on the Conservative Manifesto, (a bit wishy-washy all round, really) nor any update on the Countryside Alliance website, so I am in limbo. It's easy for anyone in opposition to make promises, isn't it? None of the debate clips I've seen, or interviews I've heard on the radio show any of the 'Big Three' committing themselves to anything definite or explaining how they're going to pay for the changes they're going to make. Roll on next Thursday, I'll be glad when it's all over.
It's been a strange week on the domestic front. With no horses to muck out, I feel the rug has been pulled from under me, a bit of a limbo there, too. I decided by Tuesday that my day must still have some structure to it, so I have made a rule that I have to be out of the house by 8am to let the chickens out.
I must digress here to tell you that I have no idea at what age a cockerel reaches the age of sexual maturity, but all I can say for certain is that it's around six months of age. The poor girls only come out for breakfast and George is haranguing them. They get to swallow two pieces of corn, and then they are launched at. George's idea of romantic courtship goes along the lines of, "Brace yourself, darlin'!" and the job is done. Although his actual performance in this area requires a bit of polish, I believe I am to assume that we are now the proud possessor of fertilized eggs. Pongo and Missis are picking up an incubator (for a mere one hundred and twenty pounds) tomorrow.
My next job is to skip out all the stables, and make night feeds up, as the horses still seem in need of a little night-time sustenance. Unfortunately, no sooner does the job of mucking out cease, when the job of poo-picking the field begins. I have taken charge of field maintenance this year, and have said that for now the horses can have use of the entire second field, but once the haylage has been cut, they can go on the third field, but the second field must be blocked off, thoroughly poo-picked and left to recover for a few weeks before they have it back again.
I go out at 4pm and get the horses in, and go and poo-pick again while they have tea. I'd much rather poo-pick than muck out. Tessa comes with me, and usually one or other of the cats. They lay in the sun and supervise the work. Cats are good at that.
On Wednesday I went to get the horses in and Fudge was waiting for me at the gate. Barnaby was strolling down. I got Fudge in and came back to the field to see Barnaby trotting up and down the fence line looking agitated. When I looked across I could see why. Lindy had decided to take a short cut and had jumped the dry stone wall. Unfortunately he'd jumped into the wrong part of the bottom field and was separated from the others by the electric fence. I decided I'd have to undo the fence to let him through, but if he came too far down he'd realise he could just walk round the manege and escape to freedom. Barnaby was still running up and down. Fortunately for me, Lindy was so confused he decided to jump back over the wall into the middle field from whence he'd come, and run round to the gate with the others. Crisis over.
I am going to ride in the mornings, which will give me a chance to put suncream on Barnaby's nose before putting him back out in the field. Then I'm going to do the (dreaded) housework for the rest of the morning, and hopefully get some crafting done in the afternoons. It should work out quite well.
There has been a hold-up on the manege because the fibre that has to be rotovated into the sand hasn't arrived, and of course they can't put the rubber on top until that's done, so none of us can ride in it yet. I know Missis was really looking forward to it, so she'll be gutted, and I wanted to have my first go at jumping Barnaby this weekend, so that won't happen either. Never mind, can't have everything.
Oh, and before I forget, this is my latest little cross stitch effort. Only one more to go.
Have a good weekend, everyone.
