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I have lost the grey mare’s passport; she’s not going on holiday but if I don’t have one, I’ll be in major trouble. It has been missing for around two years, and today I decided to officially declare it gone forever. Apparently it will cost me £22.50 for a duplicate.
I am not, I must confess, the most organised of people. I am in my professional life – I juggle tasks and meet deadlines with aplomb; I’m even quite good at organising other people. My animals don’t know my dark secret either: they are fed, watered and worshipped.
But in my personal motto seems to be “why do today what you can put off until tomorrow”. Hence the lack of action over the passport, and my current mild panic about the horse and car insurance policies. Both are due for renewal shortly, and due to an oversight, I forgot to tell the companies I moved just before Christmas. Ditto the DVLA. Last time I was stopped by the police, the policeman wasn’t very impressed with the fragments of pink paper that piece together to make up my licence, either.
I am a hoarder – I am always convinced that if I throw something out I will need it. I have a forest-worth of paperwork stuffed in various folders, boxes and drawers. But last year, I couldn’t find my MOT certificate and had to pay for another one. I can easily lay my hands on a letter of appointment from 1992 or an electricity bill from 1996. What’s the betting my insurance details won’t be quite so easy to find?
Hoarding, I think, is a gene you are born with. I definitely have it; I hate to throw anything away, because it may well prove usual in the future. I have discovered this through bitter experience: I only ever want something I have not needed for years when it is gone.
I remember as a small child, going to a fete at a big hall. My granddad was determined to divert me from the toy stall, but I would have my way. I was delighted to discover the twins of some of my cuddly toys: toys I no longer played with, but whom I loved nonetheless. When I realised their true identities, I threw a tantrum, then spent all of my money buying them back.
Like those long ago toys, I consider my books to be my friends. I have vast quantities of them and am very possessive of them – which is why I can’t quite fathom why I gave away my Jill books. Perhaps it was because, about to leave home to go to university, I considered it was time to “put away childish things”.
Jill was my horsy heroine. I received my first Jill book as a hand-me-down from a woman my mum was working for, along with my first pair of hand-me -down jodhpurs. Like the jodhpurs – they were ancient elephant-eared Harry Halls – Jill was already rather quaint. Written by Ruby Ferguson between the late 1940s and early 1960s, Jill’s world had disappeared; it was another country, where they do things differently.
Vaguely politically incorrect, Jill’s world is full of gollys, goshes, and simply super exclamations such as “My Russian rabbits!” It’s a world where girls ride out in shirt and tie even at weekends, where tweed hacking jackets are de rigeur and competing in a bowler hat is the norm (I’ve always wanted a bowler hat). Proper teas with sandwiches and cake are daily occurrences and sausages and chips are the height of luxury.
I love Jill because she had attitude. She may have been a demure 1950s teenager, but she was feisty. In Jill’s world, you ‘loathed’ ‘drips’ and ‘blots’ and sarcasm was an art form. Sophistication was pressed powder and a little bit of lipstick. It’s also a world where the health and safety police would have a seizure.
A lot of Jill’s design for life has stayed with me. You try to play by the rules, you tell the truth, you don’t go ‘pot-hunting’ at gymkhanas, and you always put your horse’s welfare before your own. If you do that, you too can win the under-16 jumping at Chatton Show with your ‘ordinary’ ponies Black Boy and Rapide.
There are nine Jill books in the series and in the last few years, I’ve bought them all back. Dipping into one is not only nostalgia for my own childhood, it’s also a rose-tinted wallow in a world I never knew.
