Life begins at Forty

All thoughts of an enthusiastic early doors start on the Rock HQ runway evaporated seconds after the alarm clock dragged me back from the land of nod. The howling gale and sound of rain hammering the bedroom window a clue to the prevailing concreting conditions. Time passed inspecting the insides of my eyelids until apprentice smallholder let me know that now was not the time for sleeping, it was time for action. Serried ranks of marmite soldiers were dealt with and then I went out into the elements to play spot the pig amongst the Ryelands, goat and dog. That puzzle solved, the weather brightening, the main task of the day was addressed. George was sleeping peacefully in the shed, gleaming as new, and we looked at how far one man and his mixer have come since we started the project. It looked good, but we had a lot to do.

George was pressed into action and as usual a major help. Rocky on the other hand was his usual hindrance. Steve the electrician arrived and replaced our disabled Anti Aircraft light. The monster light he installed illuminates the whole of the runway so any unauthorised landings will be dealt with day or night.

Three and a half hours later 40 mixes were laid and thankfully I ran out of stone and light before energy. It was a close run thing. I manned up for the late routine which included moving the 24 bags of cement needed to finish the runway and clear and clean the gear. Pigs were fed (curiously they didn't escape today) so finally thoughts turned to the plan for the day. Sit on my pretty boy pony. Strange sounds were emanating from his stall as I wearily approached.
Should I get on him considering my arms feel like lead, my back aches, a good sit down was needed but not necessarily on a horse.
Then theres the fact that I'm in a confined space, hard floor, harder hooves, in all I was feeling more enthusiastic about punching myself in the face than climbing on my pony. The weird noises were louder, lots of banging, bumping and the horsey equivalent of "Ouch" and "Oh Bugger" every now and then. Was Apollo was psyching himself up to deal with me?


Every picture tells a story. This one tells the story of a pony who is, to be fair, a few paste sandwiches short of a picnic, dressed in his splendid new coat, having, what is technically known as, a spot of bother. The head end is closest, his ears are where his whithers should be. Fifteen minutes later horse was rescued by would be rider and both of us decided that we would give further complications like me falling off and hitching a ride in the air ambulance a miss today.