As some of you are aware Scotto is ten years younger than me and whilst there is the fear when we go out someone might say something like,
“The table is ready for you and your son Madam,” there are definitely some advantages… wink, wink, nudge, nudge… NO! …OTHER advantages I mean.
For example, younger men REALLY know their way around a computer so I can exploit his expertise on making my blog look pretty.
For example, younger men REALLY know their way around a computer so I can exploit his expertise on making my blog look pretty.
I can also fool a younger man with my artificial knowledge of everything that occurred before 1980.
One disadvantage, however, is how much more energy my younger man has than me.
One disadvantage, however, is how much more energy my younger man has than me.
No… I’m still not referring to THAT so get your mind out of the gutter.
Scotto has planned a full day’s outing tomorrow including waking up at sparrow’s fart, jumping on a ferry to Magnetic Island and… wait for it… partaking in two hours of horse trail riding.
Pinky’s soon to be tender derriere has not been in direct contact with a saddle for roughly thirty years and I’m a smidgeon nervy.
The only stirrups my feet have seen in the past three decades are gynaecological and the only reins I’ve pulled in are when I’ve realised it’s two in the morning and time to leave the party.
Maybe they’ll match the horses up to the riders. In that case I expect I’ll be allocated the old grey mare (who ain’t what she used to be, many long years ago).
When I was a little girl I dreamed of galloping across a verdant field on a black stallion called ‘King’ with my waist length ringlets flowing behind me, followed by a handsome prince on a white steed attempting to catch up with his elusive Princess Pinkette.
Instead the scenario will be Scotto, proficiently cantering into the distance whilst Pinky sits on a motionless, overweight nag, swatting flies, cursing, uselessly kicking the horse in the ribs and becoming more sunburnt as each stationary minute passes.
Scotto’s horse will have a glamorous name like ‘Gunpowder’ while Pinky’s horse will be called ‘Meandering Madge’.
The only time ‘Madge’ will display any sign of life will be during the five minutes before we reach home-base.
At this late stage of the journey, Madge will spontaneously and impolitely bolt; ignoring Pinky’s feverish screams and yanking of the reins in the frightening realisation the saddle is slipping sideways and she’s about to be incorrectly repositioned underneath the equine she-devil.
I’ll arrive back at home-base being dragged along in the dust, desperately holding onto the reins, with one foot in a stirrup and the other foot trailing free style.
Scotto will be calmly resting under a tree, already onto his second beer.
The only positive side of this consequence is that I have accrued at least six weeks sick leave so if I break a leg it will be a very restful teaching time in term four.Although… they shoot old nags when they break their legs don’t they?
Scotto has planned a full day’s outing tomorrow including waking up at sparrow’s fart, jumping on a ferry to Magnetic Island and… wait for it… partaking in two hours of horse trail riding.
Pinky’s soon to be tender derriere has not been in direct contact with a saddle for roughly thirty years and I’m a smidgeon nervy.
The only stirrups my feet have seen in the past three decades are gynaecological and the only reins I’ve pulled in are when I’ve realised it’s two in the morning and time to leave the party.
Maybe they’ll match the horses up to the riders. In that case I expect I’ll be allocated the old grey mare (who ain’t what she used to be, many long years ago).
When I was a little girl I dreamed of galloping across a verdant field on a black stallion called ‘King’ with my waist length ringlets flowing behind me, followed by a handsome prince on a white steed attempting to catch up with his elusive Princess Pinkette.
Instead the scenario will be Scotto, proficiently cantering into the distance whilst Pinky sits on a motionless, overweight nag, swatting flies, cursing, uselessly kicking the horse in the ribs and becoming more sunburnt as each stationary minute passes.
Scotto’s horse will have a glamorous name like ‘Gunpowder’ while Pinky’s horse will be called ‘Meandering Madge’.
The only time ‘Madge’ will display any sign of life will be during the five minutes before we reach home-base.
At this late stage of the journey, Madge will spontaneously and impolitely bolt; ignoring Pinky’s feverish screams and yanking of the reins in the frightening realisation the saddle is slipping sideways and she’s about to be incorrectly repositioned underneath the equine she-devil.
I’ll arrive back at home-base being dragged along in the dust, desperately holding onto the reins, with one foot in a stirrup and the other foot trailing free style.
Scotto will be calmly resting under a tree, already onto his second beer.
The only positive side of this consequence is that I have accrued at least six weeks sick leave so if I break a leg it will be a very restful teaching time in term four.Although… they shoot old nags when they break their legs don’t they?
Please wish me luck in the comments below :)
