The sun beat down in Dorset again yesterday for a glorious afternoon at the point-to-point races. Turning up just after the first race, we managed to miss the £25 per car entrance fee, which was just as well because Mr Grigg would probably have turned back. We could have walked because the course is only about a mile away as the crow flies. But then crows fly, and we don't.
I got very excited when my horse jumped in first place over the last fence. Until I realised they had another circuit to go. I am not very up on this horse racing business. I still call racecards 'programmes'.
Posh Totty was there and so was Celebrity Farmer. I have candid photos to prove it. But other friends, who shall remain nameless, kept away because of the amateur steeplechase's association with hunting. As a former placard-carrying, aniseed-spraying sab, I have mellowed in recent years and almost turned completely the other way when hunting was banned. It's not that I approve of hunting. I don't. But I resent an urban government telling country people what to do.
It's been a busy weekend here in the village. Celebrity Farmer's dad is bottle feeding four lambs and has been joined by a camcorder-filming, pyjama-clad holidaymaker every morning. The square became busier than Picadilly Circus on Friday when a runaway lorry on the main road forced all the traffic to take a detour. We always know when there has been an accident. The square suddenly becomes gridlocked chaos.
A mattress was dumped just down the road but fortunately no-one was in it. Mr Sheepwash has just built the best little henhouse in the village. Our boat idea is moving forward and the harbourmaster is being very patient. Mrs Bancroft is one of five WI ladies going to Prince Charles's Highgrove House this week.
And a thief has come back to the village hall and stolen more bloody oil.
That's about it
Love Maddie x
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