Fifty Shades of Neigh

My husband is really into horses. 

Ok, let’s rephrase that.  My husband is really into horse racing.

 As for me, I prefer the corporate hospitality side of things, and will happily scoff champers and canapés if I get a chance. 

 If asked - who do you think will win the Derby, my standard answer is usually -

 A horse.

If really pressed –

 A brown one.  

Husband is part of a syndicate which means he owns a small bit of a race horse, a hoof or something. So when he asked me -

Fancy seeing the stud? 

I replied,

What, that old film with Joan Collins cavorting on a flowery swing?

Well, there will be a riding crop or two and lots of sex involved. Horsey sex. I’m talking about a stud farm – when you can see the baby horses.

Hmm. I like baby animals. Is it far and do I have to dress up?

No. It’s in Oxford and you can wear wellies.

 

So off we went. 

It was quite a gathering of other syndicate members, mostly middle – aged, retired people, some with walking sticks and portable tripod chairs. We didn’t know anyone and as they chatted about Belle, Marsha, and Lexi I soon realised they weren’t discussing unfortunately- named relatives, but the horses themselves. They certainly knew their stuff.  I didn’t have a clue. 

We weren’t exactly a sprightly lot, unlike the thoroughbreds we were about to see. Stars of the equine world, not to be touched, fed or flash photographed by the common crowd.

The urbane, slightly balding manager of the stud gave an interesting talk as the yearlings were being paraded in front of us.  He reminded me of someone, an entertainer from years past.  He went through the horsey equivalent of Burke's Peerage. How he remembered all those names, who gave birth to who and which races they won was quite amazing.  No illegitimate issue here either, these horses are definitely not allowed a bit on the side.

 I learnt a lot. 

Apparently Cotswold grass, with its underlying limestone, feeds and produces the best racehorses. Bit like chalky soil for the best champagne growing I suppose. The bluegrass region of Kentucky has the same minerality.  If you’re stupid enough to start a stud farm in Kentucky on the one narrow belt of land without the limestone soil, then you’re a sucker, pal. 

And then there were all those euphemisms for bonking.  As a horse, one is covered by another horse and if one takes to the cover, bingo, one is in foal!  A racing stallion put out to stud can expect to service 80 mares per season. Attaboy!

 And, depending on the potential winning offspring, at up to £250,000 a pop! No foal, no fee, so if he misses, the mare has another go! 

Gives a whole new meaning to being shagged out. 

Brexit was mentioned, if we left they’d have to have loads of paperwork to transport horses between countries etc etc.  We’d been standing for a while.  I was contemplating nobbling the pensioner next to me and nicking his tripod chair when suddenly the speaker mentioned WORMS. 

He had my attention. 

The onlookers nodded sagely as I listened aghast to tales of exorbitant vets’ fees, how often the horses are wormed and how they sometimes put sheep in the pasture to, wait for it, eat the horses’ worms excreted on the grass. Yuck, yuck, yuck. What about the poor sheep?

 Any questions?

I had plenty of inane ones but after one stern glare from husband I decided to keep quiet. Then we were off to another part of the farm to look at the mares and their darling foals. We walked, but the older and infirm were hauled away in a long hay-lined cart pulled by a tractor. As they passed, unbidden, and unwelcome, scenes from Schindler’s List came to mind.   

And now it was the beauty pageant for the mares and foals.

 The little ones were wonderful to behold, some more high-spirited than others, their characters coming through even at an early age.  The speaker’s comments on the mares were highly personal, and for the horses, if they’d understood, highly offensive.  And then I remembered who he reminded me of – Bob Hope in the Miss World contest which he, on stage, referred to as this cattle-market! I looked around, half expecting a rep from the Mares’ Liberation Front to start chucking bags of flour around.

Goes over a bit on the knee, toeing out a bit, needs a minor op to improve her forelimb conformation,  she threw a splay- legged foal,  had a fistula after her birthing, showing her age, we’ll put her out to pasture... Affinity has had five foals on the bounce and may be ready for a rest.

 

Ready for a rest? I bet she is poor cow!

What if the mare doesn’t fancy the stallion she’s been sent to?  Is there such a thing as equine rape? I read in the pamphlet - “She had already been covered three times by Zoffany ..didn’t get in foal.. we felt that maybe a change of stallion might suit her... she had a double ovulation.” Double ovulation? That’s never happened to me!  

So there we were looking at the horses, looking at us.

 Amongst the human herd was a fair sprinkling of very powerful hind quarters, barrel chests, wobbly hocks, ribcages which widened towards the flank, knock knees, or, termed correctly, knees with medial carpal deviations. The females were mostly well past their breeding best.

Somebody mentioned inbreeding in Kentucky.

What? Were we on politics again? Didn’t’ Trump win that Primary?  No, how foolish of me, they were talking about horses of course, and in particular the over breeding from  Northern Dancer, a Canadian thoroughbred that won many races and became the most successful sire of the 20th century.

It was time to go.  The tractor and cart with its human truckload passed by as we walked along a paddock . Two mares looked up.

So one mare says to the other:-

Well, we’re better looking than that lot!

Yep, they must be off to the knackers’ yard.

And there you have it, I swear.

Straight from the horse’s mouth.

A Chinese Inconvenience

Confucius said “Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.”

Too true.

I was reminded of this in China last week. Coming off the 8 hour flight, we survived the manic car journey through Beijing to arrive, miraculously unscathed, at the calm, air-conditioned inner sanctuary of the Shangri-La hotel. Past the plush atrium we entered a room equipped with a pristine modern bathroom boasting three types of shower, including a rainforest one. Looked complex, but I managed to work it out.

I sat down with relief on the lavatory seat.

What the...!

The blasted thing lit up and started making mechanical whirring noises.

In my extremely vulnerable position, (like Tywin Lannister on his privy in Game of Thrones, shot with a crossbow through the heart), I found it deeply worrying. What exactly was stirring beneath my delicate nether regions?

To my right, on the wall was a contraption with about six buttons, top and bottom, which I couldn’t read. I mean, after all, who expects to take their reading glasses in to the bathroom?

Having availed myself of the facility, as I got up to peer myopically at the buttons, the thing automatically flushed itself.

Thank God!

No embarrassment when the maid comes in to turn down the room, sniggering as she leaves a meaningful chocolate on the pillow.

Not wishing to investigate further and risk an abdominal malfunction I decided I had learnt quite enough that was necessary and left it at that.  Besides, we were due to meet business colleagues in one of the nicest Peking Duck restaurants in Beijing in a couple of hours. The restaurant had one of these private circular rooms with its own bathroom to the side.

Everything was going swimmingly.

I entered said bathroom, then lifted my posterior with bravado.

No flush.

So I was in there, having used a non-flushing toilet and they were right outside, probably waiting to come in. You know those Freudian nightmares when, somehow, you’re walking around stark naked in a crowd of people?

With mounting panic I could see about 10 buttons on the wall, all in Chinese script. Thankfully, the only English wording was on a rectangular lever marked FLUSH. So I pressed it, and it did! Hooray! I could now go back outside and not lose face (very important in Chinese culture) before my fellow diners.

It was then I remembered my husband’s hellish first encounter with this type of discomfort station. In a similar dining room he was, thankfully, the last to use the adjoining bathroom. The contraption had an array of fiendish buttons, all in Chinese. Having valiantly tried all of them in vain he pressed them all at the same time.

 Malfunction. Bang! The top blew off and rolled around on the floor.

So he did what any self- respecting person would do - he fled the scene of the crime, his DNA very much in evidence.

 I took a picture of our hotel lavatory to show our hoped - for grandchildren, as an example of 21st century ground-breaking technology. God knows what the future might bring.

Optional types of posterior ablutions included rear and front cleansing, with variable pressure and position of water jets. I did not try the oscillating or pulsating options before selecting the dryer.

The next time I’m offered a wash and blow-dry at the hairdresser’s I’m afraid it will have a whole different Chinese connotation.

 

Our next Shangri-La hotel in Hong Kong was unbelievably posh, festooned with crystal chandeliers and magnificent silk rugs and paintings.

Thankfully, in the bathroom, to my profound relief, square on the floor, was a nice, old-fashioned, French- style bidet.

Vive la difference!

Or, as Confucius might have said -

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!