The post that wasn't.

Well, well, well.

Yesterday I was going to write a really wonderful post about (drum rolls, please)

the county of Hampshire. 

Hampshire in 1829 (the good old days).
Austen and Keats were dead by then and it would be almost 60 years until Conan Doyle introduced the world to Sherlock Holmes. but you get the idea.
Also, the Isle of Wight (the bit at the bottom) is no longer in Hampshire.
Just saying.

My home county and new-old home, Jane Austen's home county, the county in which Arthur Conan Doyle wrote the first Sherlock Holmes story (A Study in Scarlet), where Keats wrote The Eve of St Agnes ("Ah, bitter chill it was!") and was inspired to write the ode To Autumn (you know, "seasons of mist" etc., etc...), and the place where the Burberry mac was first invented.

Impressive, huh? 

I hope you like the way that I put myself at the front of that list. 

Nothing quite like having ideas above one's station or anything.

Ahem.

Where was I?

Oh yes, "the post that never happened" (I've had quite a few of those).

Firstly, 

my application got rejected

for

yet

another

job.

It's becoming quite my thing NOT getting a job.

Er, then I pulled myself together and decided to count my blessings and go and ride my horse

(yes, you're well within your rights to withhold sympathy).

Imagine my horror when I discovered that her leg was covered from the stifle joint to the hoof in dried blood  and wet, oozing blood.

And quite a bit of gore.

Just in case you wanted to brush up your knowledge of equine anatomy.

Not for the fainthearted.

So by that time I felt I had licence to feel exceedingly sad.

Which I did.

I cheered up after a quick (actually, very long) visit from the vet

at after-hours call-out rates, naturally

and the sight of Poll tucking into her hay, trussed up in another neon pink bandage.

Please note that in the picture below she only has 1 bandage, whereas in the picture above she has 2.

That's how bloody and mucky her legs were (even after hosing) - we thought that there had to be 2 injuries because so much blood couldn't have come from just one cut.

(Cue major embarrassment when the vet investigated further and told us that we'd mistaken dislodged blood clots for open wounds. My bad).

A starving horse, very grumpy to've had her supper delayed by the inconvenient visit from the vet.

When I checked on her first thing this morning the bandage was wrinkled 'round her pastern (sort of like the ankle but not) like Nora Batty's stockings, which rather spoiled the effect, but her leg was a lot better and had stopped bleeding.

Phew.

Nora Batty (RIP), complete with wrinkled stockings.
P had a similar look on her face this morning when she discovered she was not allowed out in the field for today.

So basically, this post is an extremely long-winded way of saying...

I haven't really got anything to say. 

Until tomorrow.

Or maybe Friday.

We'll see.

An ability to procrastinate is a wonderful thing. Discuss.

It's a beautiful sunny day here, yet thanks to my exceptional ability to procrastinate, I am forced to sit inside and work on job applications and funding proposals with only the cat for company.

And the cat has got so bored that he's fallen asleep on me.

At least it means I can't move from my desk.

I'm not sure if you know anything about the academic job market, but it's pretty much like the normal job market but worse.

So true...

Candidates for one of the fellowships that I am applying for have a less than 5% chance of success and for the other fellowship, candidates have a 1% chance.

To say that it sucks would probably be the biggest understatement of the year.

If another person tells me 'oh well, someone's got to get it' or 'you won't have any chance if you don't apply!' I will not be responsible for my actions.

But enough of focusing on the downsides because, quite frankly, the reality of it is that I've found a job that I love and a project I want to work on for which I will sacrifice pretty much everything.

And how many people have the dubious honour of saying something like that?

In some ways I think it's quite cool.

Source

In other news, my horse has a problem.

Actually, Polly is a problem, as well as having multiple problems (and, occasionally, multiple personality disorders).

But this particular problem is an addiction to accidents and hurting herself.

Some might call it self-harming, but I think it's more likely a somewhat admirable but exceptionally foolish disregard for personal safety.

This is not only frustrating but rather costly, as you can imagine.

Why is it that when you put 'horse' in front of any product name - for example 'horse shampoo' as opposed to 'shampoo' - the price increases by approximately 12338679084448003928%? 

Something to think about.

Butter wouldn't melt.

It is very good that my horse is hyper-aware of dragons that lurk in ditches, lions that are concealed behind innocuous-seeming logs, and horse-eating sheep (bred only in Fife, as far as I'm aware).

I'm grateful that she is concerned for my safety when I ride her and is keen to ensure that we stay well away from these potentially life-threatening hazards.

It is not very good, however, that when she is in the field, these alarming predators (also known as the wind, leaves, and, sometimes, a lurking cat) cause her to spin, gallop flat out, rear, buck, pace up and down, crack out some extended trot that would have scored well in an Olympic Dressage test, snort loudly and, most of the time, lose a shoe (normally when she's just had a set put on), or cut herself in a way that perplexes the vet, causes me near-fatal heart attacks and necessitates a lengthy period of box-rest and pampering.

Who knew that dragons still exist in Scotland?
(Answer: Polly)
Source

Perhaps the clue is in that final word.
Pampering.

My horse is an attention seeker and feels that the only way that she can divert my attention from St Fanta the Elderly, or baby Scoop, is to hurt herself.

I am a bad mother.

I think the content of this post proves that I probably should not spend extended periods alone with no-one else to talk to apart from a sleeping cat.