Lost days

Traditionally the first of January is a bit of a no-go area. Normally the Horse Doctor, having partaken of too much Hogmanay cheer, doesn't actually surface until the second (except for occasional brief glimpses, twixt bedroom and bathroom, with accompanying gurgly noises), and I tend to wander around half-dead and wondering why I can't think straight. This year it should be doubly bad, because today's Sunday.

But all this week we've been looking after a neighbour's shetland pony, which is recovering from a bout of laminitis. This involves a short but brisk walk, including a river crossing and a steep climb up to our neighbour's house. Dougal (the pony) gets a feed, with some drugs if he's looking a bit sorry for himself, and then we walk home again. This has to be done reasonably early in the morning (though half past three, when I went to my bed is a bit too early), and then again just before it gets dark.

So, far too soon after my whisky-soaked brain conked out last night, we were up and outdoors in the bracing weather. It's been raining pretty much non-stop all week here (well, it is Wales), and this morning when we forded the Peiran, we nearly lost the dachshund (he's only got little legs), and had to come back the long way. Fresh air and rain in the face is an unorthodox but effective palliative, if not cure, for the new year malady.

But now my brain is starting to slip into half-dead mode. I'm trying to find things to do that won't let me fall asleep - so reading is not an option. Soon it will be time to mount the second Dougal expedition of the day. Then I can light a fire and curl up on the sofa. But for now I've got to fight the drooping eyelids. Do things.

So here's a picture I took in Singapore Botanical Gardens last year: