Ok, frankly, today has been rather quiet so I don’t have anything specific to blog about. Sooooo, Im just going to start randomly writing and see where it goes and whether any rants spew forth.

I’ve been blogging a lot recently about what I don’t like about Denmark. My fiance who happens to read this blog mentioned to me that perhaps it was worth considering what I did like about Denmark.

First up and most importantly for me has to be the people. The Danish people are amazing. They seem to be friendlier and generally more sociable than the Brits. An example would have to be the livery yard I’m on. Horsey people are famously bitchy. There’s just no getting around this; we will be bitchy about everything. Dressage riders don’t like showjumpers because they can’t ride properly. Showjumpers hate dressage riders because they over ride everything and have a tendency of becoming snobby. Eventers think they’re superior to both because they have to tackle all three discipline… everyone else calls them jack of all trades, masters of none. Endurance riders are the ones who daren’t do anything aside from hacking at speed. Hunters are cliquey. It goes further than this though… full livery clients hate DIYers (a.k.a The Green Welly Brigade) who, in their opinion, mess up the yard, mess up the routines and have a strange fascination of making things out of bailer twine. DIYers hate full livery’s as they don’t have the commitment to horse ownership and use money to make up for a deficit of care. Part liveries… no one likes them because they can’t decide which side of the debate to join. Horse people will argue over EVERYTHING and depending on which side of the fence you sit on over certain issues; you can frequently expect to be accused of being cruel. Add to this that most horse owners at amateur level are female and livery yards become a cess pit of bitchyness. Not only can they be catty over how their fellow liveries horses are cared for and ridden, but they can also be bitchy about how their fellow liveries look, dress, how their hair is and so on.

As such, when I agree’d to move back to Denmark, a major concern of mine was Jack and where we’d keep him. The plan was to move so we could look at buying a property with land and stables, but that was more long term. The fact was, I had to go on livery. I’d be the proverbial new girl. To make it worse, I don’t speak the language. I was expecting the worse to say the least.

My horse, for example, feels the cold something terrible. When Jack and I met, it became clear to me that our relationship was fate. He was, without doubt, the equine version of me. Jack shivers at the first sign of a summer breeze. I had him on loan for a month before the sale was agreed and I remember retrieving him from the field in a heavyweight winter carpet; a wug to be precise. I asked the yard owner if there had been a mistake with his rug… it was only the middle of September. No mistake, I was told, Jack feels the cold. Fate! I have the circulation of a corpse. When everyone else is enjoying temperature of mid twenties in the summer months, I can be found with a blanket round my shoulders. My blood cells are fat and lethargic and rather than whizzing round my body keeping things warm, they’re sat yawning and watching eastenders. There was no doubt, Jack and I were meant to be. However, let me be frank; Im an over protective owner. He’s booted up to do anything more strenuous than being stood outside for a brush. His legs are wrapped for most of the year to stop him banging them in the stable. He has an air bag filled saddle because Im precious over his back. I won’t use gadgets of any kind and his bridle is a simple snaffle with a cavesson noseband (to prevent my trainer from over titening those awful cranks that are all the fashion)

Right from Jack and I arriving, people were lovely to us. They humoured my “British ways” and tried to help me understand why they did things differently. Some people were clearly reluctant to speak English but most gave it their best shot and introduced themselves and, over time, the more reluctant became more confident. While the Danes generally have excellent English, the equine terminology isn’t something that they would have come across. While their English education starts at an early age, there is no doubt that it continues and is vastly expanded through movies and television. Lets face it, there aren’t many of those around that would be discussing the finer points of dressage training or veterinary care of our four legged friends. An excellent example of this was when I was told my horse had rot on his legs….

“My horse has WHAT?!”‘
“Rot! His legs are rotting”
“Jack’s legs are rotting…?”

This resulted in a pretty furious drive to the stables to find he had the tiniest bit of mud fever on his legs.

“Rot!”
“That’s mud fever”
“Ohhhhh, we call it muck. Translated to rot best”

A similar panic occured when I was sent a text message saying he had foot sour. This turned out to be a touch of thrush.

When he first arrived, I was told, quite enthusiastically by the stable master that it was recommended that all working horses went on the machine. THE MACHINE. This worried me immensly. I had visions of some kind of electric shock therapy used as a training method or such like. THE MACHINE turned out to be the horse walker.

Throughout all these language difficulties, the staff have remained enthusiastic of trying to learn the lingo and making sure I know what’s going on with Jack. I have to give massive kudos to them for that.

Next up, Im going to mention my hair dresser. Yes, I know we have hair dressers in the UK. Perhaps I’ve been unlucky with mine but they were forever trying to talk me out of things. I’ll admit that I tend to go to extremes with my hair and once I have an idea in my head, it needs to be done immediatly. This has caused me no end of problems with hairdressers who, after listening to me excitedly explain my new idea, tells me that maybe we’ll go with a toned down version first to see if I like it. I usually walk out with my hair a couple of shades different and generally feel disappointed. I must admit, going to the hair dresser for the first time here was daunting. Trying to explain what it is you want can be hard enough in your own language but when the hair dresser isnt a native speaker?! Never the less, I wanted a drastic change to my hair so I had to bite the bullet and go. My hair dresser rocks. He’s called Kim, he was very honest with me from word go and he tries his best to do what I want. Not just that, but he throws out new ideas that I might like and he’s really taken his time to get a feel for my style. So, when an English girl turned up on his door with almost black hair and declared “I want to be blonde… I want to be platinum blonde with pink stripes. It needs to look punkish! I wanna look like Avril Lavigne” his only answer was that it might take a few months to get it that blonde. He ordered in pink colour especially for me; hes since ordered in reds, blues and purples and his last idea was hair extensions putting my hair to my waist. No more two shades change. No more hair dresser who seems semi-terrified of me throwing a hissy fit because I don’t like what they do; Hello a hair dresser that gets me.

Incidently, referring back to my rather spoilt horse, I logged on Facebook earlier to find he had 7 requests for friendship. Evidently, Jack’s friendship is more in demand than mine! Im now starting to consider how I will feel when the day arrives that Jack can proudly display more friends than I do. On that note, I’ve still been pondering the psychological consequenes of maintaining virtual relationships on behalf of my four legged beastie. Could it be some kind of displacement? Perhaps I’m portraying subconscious areas of my own psyche onto Jack! Perhaps his virtual popularity is what I secretly yearn for? This is definitly something I will be pondering more, perhaps while I’m in the hairdressers at the weekend getting blonded up and having my pink stripes put back in.

Finally, while this is completly off topic, I wanted to mention the house cats here. When I first lived in Denmark, 5 years ago now, we bought me a kitten; called Fluffy. When we moved back to the UK, we took our newly acquired husky with us, but left the cat behind as we thought they’d be less likely to settle. My cat turned out to be the local whore and pumped out a couple of litters of kittens before she finally got “fixed”. Incidently, in personal objection to this, she ran away shortly after. She was spotted by the neighbours running round the forest close by. This does add up since her first litter (of which theres actually only one resulting cat), showed that she has a certain fondness for “roughing it.” To put it another way, theres quite clearly some feral cat in the resulting off spring. My darling fluffy clearly liked a bit of the rough. That kitten is now a couple of years old and has to be the strangest looking kitty in existance. She’s long furred, short tailed and just generally strange. She can be found sleeping in the strangest places outside. Just last night my fiance dragged her in after finding her bedded down in a pile of leaves on the window ledge to the basement windows. (The windows are technically below ground level, so they have a sort of dug out area infront of them that allows some light to get in.

Im not generally a cat person. To be blunt, they don’t like me. I actually really like cats, but I take personal offence to the fact that, as a species, they just don’t like me. My fiance says I’m too huggly and bouncy for them. For me, anything small and fluffy is place on the earth to be hugged and cuddled. Frequently what happens is that I’ll see said kitty lazing around. I have an urge to huggle said kitty. Due to the fact that by nature, they’re sneaky little balls of evilness, Im fully prepared to sneak up and pounce on them unsuspectingly. For me, its a case of playing them at their own game. Consequently, I frequently get scratched by a cat trying to wriggle it’s way out of my arms. Hissing Im used to. This has become a personal vendetta against the cat species. The more they hate me, the more I want to hug them. I’m going to hug them into loving me. Despite all this, Im quite taken with Fluffy’s bizarre looking result of her flirtation with the rougher side of cat society. I have respect for them both. Perhaps because I have a soft spot for tattoo emblazened rock stars.. I can fully appreciate Fluffy’s desire for one night with a feral cat. Now, Im not even sure what said illigitimate child cat is called, but for me, she’s Lil-fluff. Much to her disgust, I stuck a camera in her face earlier and here are the (not so great) results.

Lil Fluff

Aaaaaaaaw

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw!!!!

Sleep Kitty

These pictures sadly don’t do her fluffyness justice. I’ll try and take some more when it’s light but she was laid on a dark duvet in a darkened room. If it had been any other cat, I would have dragged it off the bed and made it stand in the light to be photographed (again, I’m stressing that cats and I don’t get along), but this is Lil Fluff and I didn’t want to disturb her 😀

Gizmo

Lastly, the remaining cat from Fluffy’s second litter; Gizmo. If this picture doesn’t show the evilness of felines I don’t know what does.

So, enough random blogging for one day! I bid you a good evening dear readers!

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