Friday, 18 February 2011

The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful

e.e.cummings said that, except not quite because I don't think he would have capitalised the T at the beginning of the sentence. Call me anal but I couldn't bear not to.

 His is a POSITIVE way to look at mud.

When I'm slogging up the fields early in the morning, leading reluctant horses who would much rather stay in the dry and warm, I'm not quite as sanguine. Especially not when one wellie gets stuck and comes off and I step in the mud in my sock.

And when I'm chipping off the caked-on mud that encases Poppy and Alfie (well, all the bits that aren't covered with a rug) and hosing the claggy mud from their legs - put it like this - I am not composing inspirational poetry.

BUT - it DID lead to some happy thoughts this morning. It's funny how the mind works.

I was singing (through gritted teeth, admittedly) 'Mud, mud, glorious mud!' and suddenly I was 8 years old, in the drawing room of 51, St. Matthews Parade, Northampton, telephone number Northampton 33780,  listening to Flanders and Swann on the gramophone.

I still have the record

Happy days!

I'll forgive you, mud.

Just this once.