Day 123: I Am Given A Tantalising Glimpse Of My Christmas Present And Believe I Shall Soon Have My Heart's Desire, But Am Thwarted

I have always wanted a pony. When I got older and taller, I wanted a horse. But not just any old equine thing; oh no. I mean mules aren't much cop, and you can't do much with a zebra, unless you're a lion.

I had part-shares in a donkey called Rolly once. (He was called Rolly because, like most donkeys, he liked rolling around in fields quite a lot). He didn't do much except eat carrots, roll around and put up with me trying to plait his non-existent mane, but he was handy for fancy dress competitions at agricultural shows.

I went as a carrot once, as you will see in this enchanting photograph. (The arm you see is not a tantalising glimpse of Monkeymother, but my aunt; the lady in blue to the left is my Granny.) Rolly usually looked a lot happier than he does here, and that orange blob has nothing to do with his actual muzzle.

(In fact, he usually looked like this, but without the rosette he won for being second best donkey in Kinross-shire. There were two donkeys in the competition.)

Over the years, Monkeymother constructed various constumes, starting with Carrot (me, c. 1976), Gold Prospector (my little brother, c. 1977), and Christopher Robin and Eeyore (my little brother, c. 1978). Rolly always played a key part, and we invariably won a rosette and trot round the ring.

Time passed. We grew too big for Rolly, and he became too old for us. I rode other peoples' ponies, fell off a few horses, went on a riding holiday, had pretend gymkhanas featuring Britain's plastic horses at my friend Sara's flat, read the Complete Works of the Pullein-Thompson sisters and cried for three days after seeing International Velvet. But I couldn't have a real horse of my own because we lived in the big city.

But Monkeymother has bever forgotten. Tonight I returned from a night out (during which I ate too much lemon trifle), and found an electronic communication from her suggesting that finally - yes, finally - I will be getting a pony for Christmas. And here she is, Butterscotch the Pony (with some little bastard interloper who can get her stupid hands off MY pony RIGHT NOW):




















I have been to look at the computer internet link that was included in Monkeymother's communication. It has given me a sneak preview of Butterscotch, and she sounds really good. "Feed her the carrot and groom her with her brush. Watch her swish her tail back and forth! She even whinnies and snorts, and will sniff your hand!".

But hold up: what is this? "Pony's maximum weight limit is 80 lbs.-36kg." In Monkeymother's eyes I am always lovely, but I think she has underestimated my weight a bit. Well, quite a lot, actually. Still, it's the thought that counts.

Meanwhile, I will prevail. For one day I WILL have a horse (I'm thinking a 16 hand bay with a kind face, about 7 years old, nicely broken-in and fond of apples), and I shall call him Kind Horsey, and brush his mane every day. On Sundays I will oil his hooves and for Christmas he shall have a whole packet of Polos to himself.

Trot on, Kind Horsey!