the hoarse whisperer

The doorbell rang. 'Deliverance!' shouted a voice. Inside, I examined the riding crop that emerged from my rummaging in the package newly arrived from my agent. It made a satisfying whoosh as it swished through the air. This was obviously my agent’s attempt to help overcome the writers block I had told him about that had just brought my first Black Lace novel to a grinding, shuddering, thrusting halt. The phone rang. ‘Er hellair!’ said the voice, ‘riding stables here! You haven’t forgotten have you?!’ It had been a long night on the karaoke. I had forgotten. ‘I’m feeling a little hoarse’, I said. ‘Practicing already eh?’ said the voice, ‘that’s what we like to hear! All kitted out then?’ I peered into the package from my agent and nodded. ‘Hellair?’ said the voice. ‘I’m nodding’, I said. ‘See you at ten’ and I put the phone down. ‘Ish’ I added. I lifted a hat from the box. It was large and hard, sigh. At least it was black to go with my flowing raven locks. A further rummage revealed some trousers of the same tanned complexion of a slightly disappointing off season week in Tuscany. I looked at the label. Size medium, colour:Lady Godiva. Horses and I do not see eye to eye, unless I stand on a box, I have to take an antihistimine to read a Jilly Cooper novel and if anyone’s going to have a long face in the room it should be me. I remembered the conversation with my agent. ‘Rilly’ he said, ‘you could be sitting on the next Da Vinci Code here saleswise’. This was quite apt as I was sitting on the original Di Vinci Code to reach the desk. ‘But you’ve got to look like you don’t mind mucking in with the locals’. I said I would muck in, but if mucking out was involved he could bloody well forget it.

I arrived at the stables. ‘Er hellair', said a man in even tighter trousers than me, ‘you must be Rilly’. ‘Are you supposed to be able to bend your knees in these?' I asked. The instructor looked impressed. ‘I say, those are the same brand The Queen wears you know’, he said, as if to explain why Her majesty rides side saddle. 'Are you ready for me?' I asked. 'Yep, I've upped the old insurance since I spoke to you on the phone Rilly', he replied. 'Oh dear, did I sound that accident prone?' I asked. 'No, just worried you'd slag us orff orn that blog of yours! Now, let’s get you started then shall we dear’. he said. ‘Foot in the stirrups’, he indicated, ‘easy as visiting the gynaecologist, eh old girl?' Good thing I’m not seeing him today’, I said. ‘Oh, I don’t know', replied my instructor, ‘At least wearing those jods he’d be able to see everything was OK without you taking your trousers orf!’ He steadied the horse with a calm masculine, although slightly horsey smelling, confidence. ‘Alright up there Rilly?' He asked. ‘I can see one of my houses from here!’ I told him. I tried to hide my nervousness whilst making a note to mention it on the blog for dramatic effect. ‘Maybe I should trade in the car for one of these’, I said, patting my mount. ‘How many horsepower can you get out of these things?’ At least I couldn’t lose the keys, I thought, although my husband would probably still forget to fill it with hay, or whatever they run on. Maybe instead of driving each morning to watch other people work I could ride. ‘Does that Philips girl ever visit your stables?’ I asked. ‘Fraid not dear’ said the manly Rupert, ‘but Daniel Radcliffe comes up from time to time, that’s why old Shergar here seems a little nervous. He's been through enough already, poor lad. Don’t worry though Rilly’, he continued, ‘a horse is just like a man, you just need to get on him and ride him until you break his spirit’. Oh dear, I thought as that image entered my prescient imagination, I really should have worn the dark blue jodhpurs today, and I began to slide slowly sideways off of the damp saddle.

Later, as I stepped out of the shower at home and made a mental note to order another gallon of deep heat before the next riding lesson I thought that perhaps I was cut out for this country life after all. I put on my riding hat and resolved to wear it whilst I recounted my adventures to the world. I looked in the Mirror and Ellen Whitaker looked back, although a little less blonde, young and able to tell one end of a horse from the other than young Ellen normally is. Suddenly the doorbell rang. It was Rupert, all six foot of mud spattered Jods, high leather boots and masterful authority of him. I sighed. ‘Just popped by to check you survived’, he said. ‘Come in’, I whispered in a timorous voice I put down to the smokey karaoke of the previous night. My intuition told me he was very impressed that I was wearing my riding hat when I answered the door. 'Very impressed to see you wearing your riding hat when you answered the door!' he said. I don’t know how long he was there but sadly eventually he had to go. ‘I can see you’re really keen to adopt the country life Rilly’, he said, 'just one small word of advice, and hope I'm not too late, don’t forget all your old London ways next time you go back home will you. Remember some things are completely the other way around in the city than they are here’. ‘What do you mean exactly?' I asked, puzzled. He looked me up and down and smiled. 'I think you’ll find that in town the fashion is still hat orff, trousers orn dear.’

As Rupert left, the phone rang. It was my agent again. 'Rilly darling!' he began, 'just read about the riding lesson, just what we need, that's the horsey fraternity hooked up to buy the book for absolute certain dear'. He hung up and I sighed as the prospect of my dust jacket author's photograph replacing the ponies and horses on a thousand 4x4 spare wheel covers suddenly cast a cloud over my day in the sun. I reached for the dictafone that I used for my novel and tried to speak but only a hoarse whisper came out. Would I really ever fit in? Would I ever find the inspiration to finish my romantic novel or was I trapped in the gritty kitchen sink social realism of Strife in the North for ever? Sigh...