Inflation rate

The day didn't go quite as planned (it seldom does) and as the gale force winds and "occasional" showers put the mockers on any plan to concrete we set out from the sanctuary of Rock HQ to view our two new additions to the critters, Rudy and Roscoe. This entailed a 130 mile round trip across three counties but the militia who was selling had offered us a fairish deal which tempted us to venture out. The only outcome of our travels was a precise calculation of the rate of inflation. Excluding fuel costs the current rate of inflation is 61.5p per mile. This was how much in price each animal ad risen in cost by the time we viewed them. The agreed £250 was when outside their stall £300 plus £30 pedigree registration.

Thankfully good sense prevailed and it was a deal we could walk away from. The annoying thing is that this is the second time this has happened, we agree a price and then get there and its all change. Perhaps the militia think that once we have been coaxed out we would buy rather than waste our time.

As we were in the vicinity of shops the opportunity was taken to go to a toy mega store to treat the apprentice smallholder to a new plaything. The curious thing was that within the mega shop of cathedral sized proportions containing every plaything a generous parent would want to purchase to occupy their offspring we could not find the one item we wanted for our apprentice smallholder. A ball. If we wanted a fluorescent plastic scale model of the Eiffel Tower that would transform into a racing bike that fired marshmallows while telling him his times tables, there was lots of those, or a book with moving pictures and voices that matched the hand held TV that looked like a dog, plenty, but a plain and simple ball. Not a hope. There was one but it was helium filled, squeaked and changed colours when it broke ornaments, so we decided to give it a miss.

Back on the ranch my plan to concrete another section of the planet was still on hold as the failing light and other routine tasks got in the way. I cleared a mountain of horse offerings from both stables and for some insane reason thought that an appropriate reward for my labour was to sit on my pretty boy pony Apollo. I am not sure this can be referred to as "backing", a term bandied around by the horsey set, but Apollo has never been sat on before. We do have a good relationship though, I stuff money in his mouth and clear up after him (bit like teenagers really) as I have had him since he was a puppy, hes now 3 years and substantial enough to support yours truly's considerable bulk.

How good our relationship is was tested tonight, I put some appropriate music on, a track by Racing Cars, "They shoot horses don't they" (as a warning), placed a very insubstantial mounting block next to the bewildered beasts side, tucked a rubber mallet into my belt (just in case he had any funny ideas like moving) said what I could remember of Psalm 23 and cocked a welly clad leg over. Apollo looked idly over his shoulder and sensing something was different braced for impact as the rest of me sank heavily onto his untried frame.

And there we stood, or sat, depending on which one of us we were. I even felt confident enough to take a riders eye view pic with phone, which was now playing "Crazy Horses" by the Osmond's.

Like all those who live to fight another day I pulled the eject handle before things got messy, like me squished all over the stable floor. Apollo's a long way from being broken in, but he didn't break when sat on, didn't kill me and tomorrow as a reward for all the concreting I am going to repeat the process, this time with a proper camera on hand to record in graphic detail any injuries sustained!