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The Equestrian Mistress

A Secret Life,a mistress. A Equestrian,a mother. A Lover, a Wife. Blindness In Love Arrives Undercover.

By Black Dog ProductionsPublished 3 years ago 7 min read
1
Why are we such fools when love rules ?

I am truly proud of my tale. I may run out of handkerchiefs on route, but it is worth my fountains. Any love story is worth crying buckets for.I open this stable door now for you all to enter. You will require strong short boots. Long one's will be alright too.Not wellington boots though.They are only useful on the yard. I'm sure you don't want me to give you yard duties now do you? Of course you don't.You want to come inside to meet my horse ' Joker '. You want to come inside to become a horse whisperer. I can teach you all my secrets.

Upon unlatching this stable door. I must confess yes, I was a Mistress to a fine King, but so were many a fine lady in English history. My King lost his wife sadly, we all sobbed. Yet, ours is a story somewhat like orange marmalade.

Through the glass from outside of the jar.Everything is most confusing. Then you undo the lid of the jar.Presto, one tastes sweet orange spread which submits to your tastebuds. The toast is buttered on the side. At the time when the sad lady inside my marmalade jar popped out.The cork popped on my Kings champagne. He'd been utterly miserable for years under ' Miss Marmalades veil ' ( a sour wife stuck down deep). We put on an act to weep. Miss Marmalade has a somewhat bitter-sweet taste.

The matter I speak of at hand was not of my nature. I never imagined I'd end up in such a weird kind of wagon-pot. Most certainly not.Me, of all people holding true graces upon tying up my romantic laces.

I was raised at one of the finest of girls schools in England's land. I'm a Bedge-bury Park School girl, for all who truly know English aristocracies quarters. A school where any budding young equestrian girl could master the art of riding one's horse. In between classroom skill sets of mathematical numbered sheets. English language sang out charmingly from Sussex countryside lanes. The school had an excellent musical department too.

Bedge-bury Park Girls School, was a fine English building of architectural splendour. Benne-don,the boys School was around the corner over the hill. I believe a royal princess, my late father the artist Bogdan Melech. He once painted, once upon a time went to Bedge-bury too.

In my little eye, I wonder, now thinking back, if we trotted alongside an equestrian schooling arena side by side. One princess, I am referring to.

One gets very close on riding twenty degree circles on horse-back in arenas. Perfectly well schooled horses are a must.Anything being possible for it if were not. I would not be here now scribbling dot to dot. My equestrian life saved me many a time from the dying wife syndrome. On the other side of the pond. As horse life saved me from London towns people, most odd at times. There is something to be said about contrasting elements of city life, country people. They are truly not alike whatsoever. I often wonder how on earth I can return to city life. I mean how can I bear it ? Be it far more stables are now opening within the city parks. On one point, London has far more parks than some on our global spread. Maybe we must immerse ourselves once more inside the marmalade jar.

There are some pickles, jams or other sumptuous spreads, which seem to always spring up from nowhere. Standing tests of time.When one is either stone broke, or in a wheel chair wondering how on earth they got into such a pickle. If you haven't been stone broke, you should try it. For unless you tried it out for real. You won't really know what bargain hunting is all about. There's quite a difference in being a wealthy hunter to one who has laid other eggs in one's basket.

God Save The King, in my lines now. We like to plant romantic gestures around those we worship sometimes. They tend to take us for granted you know. No one really understands why some ladies are raised for graceful activities. If it be one is not born with a silver spoon in one's mouth. I think I had half a silver spoon hanging. Or else, I'd never have been a Bedge-bury girl now would I ? Some families have great breeding lines. I am most proud to say mine did. Whereas, some land in a rich ditch. Silver spoon -fed, without a clue how to do a curtsey, or put a bridle on. Horses being the last thing on their mind. Let alone ride one with grace or timing.

I mount my horse now with distinction in perfect attire. My equestrian boots fit to perfection.One's stirrup must slide easily.Your boot must not be too tight next to your stirrup when your feet are within. Or else, you will get dragged along the ground upon falling from your steed. One hopes one does not of-course come tumbling down Jolly good show would be had. Ensure all safety measures are taken. I don't want to find you under my horses tummy now do I? Or else, I will have no choice but to perform resuscitation. My first aid skills en-listing various requirements for advantages of keeping you alive.We loose lives sadly. However, we must ride the storm. Unlike princess's who land under Parisian underpasses.

No light at the end of the tunnel at all. We have light, so put it on and put it off. Upon leaving my stable.My horse will recognise you, if you peep over the door. He is called ' Joker' so has a sense of humour, rather like me. I advise to follow the rules of my yard.

As you all see, Joker my horse is truly smiling in the attached photograph. We've all had death beds to unfold within this merry kingdom called England. Historical stories requiring one to lift one's eyebrows up yet again. Windsor swung it's castle doors open. Opening upon another sad moment. The burial a great King. We must pitter patter with tiny steps that make no noise.When you run downstairs you may fall. Hold on to the banister then you can run.

Many of us are Mother's. Over stable doors and under covers. Trying to catch wandering mice running along wooden castle floors.In- between our stable duties, we sing nursery rhymes to our growing young stock. Simmering pots of oats for porridge. A good dish to fill-up on during bank busting moments. We are all broke sometimes. Although the rich have a back burner on tap. Sometimes, but not always. Ensure the stable is full of food for the horses come first to any human. Animals and children are to be first above us all.

Scratching my head beautifully toned. I drowned down under a bright red number one colour. Highlighting my Scottish lass fire from my eyes.

I wear my tale proud, for it be said most coherently. We do not know why God brings us to your door. Horse woman, servant, maid or master of my pitch. We do, but know we must listen to angels from sounds in the wind. They sing out like choral rhymes of integrity. Perhaps when the time sinks to one of evening light. We can place our weary heads to rest upon our horses breast. Feeling more the wiser for each day brings us new hope for new horizons to explode. My tale will but unfold.

I'm an equestrian mistress with white sparkling fine polished breeches. I raised my horses and family well.I had a right to love my King. Be it beyond the wishing well. Who art thou to say I was but a trumpet ? You have not a clue how much love we made upon the hay. The horses lay down after munching hay all day. While we smothered ourselves underneath. Like it or lump it ? From noon to nine o'clock.

Our Bentley arrives to take us back to a hum. A mews in Belgravia's bracelet. The t'other side of town. Dinner will be on time. On The Strand I believe. Let's make it on time, whereupon we can discuss my equestrian life. So fine to be your mistress not your wife. At that forgotten time.

Yvette Louise Melech

Pen name Delila Reddit

25/05/2021

humanity
1

About the Creator

Black Dog Productions

My background is Art In all it's diversities.

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