I have the same conversation with Mr. Hubby every day. Maybe it’s not correct to say it’s a ‘conversation’ because the word implies a vocal exchange of words—a discourse—about topics of interest to both parties.
You see, ours is a one-sided conversation and more often than not, it’s about ponies and anything horsey. We have the same conversation at breakfast, lunch and dinner with hardly any variations after the attention-grabbing first sentence. We’ve similar conversations the moment I sit in Mr. Hubby’s car and we’re off to Some Place. Lucky, most of our trips are very short, a mere ten, fifteen minutes.
|Wide open space where ponies roam|
I’ve nothing to say or add because after listening to the same record for thirty years—I survived the thirty years!—the topic bores me to tears. That’s putting it very mildly when in fact, as soon as the conversation starts, I alternate between screaming and weeping silently. To the casual observer, I could have already crossed to The Other Side because the only indications that I’m still alive are the occasional grunts and head-nods and eyebrow lifts.
|A pickup with a load of grass|
Mr. Hubby doesn’t quite care his words are eliciting less enthusiasm than a new rose bud. I guess he doesn’t really need a listener because, to me, it looks like he’s just thinking aloud. When you think aloud do you need another head for your thoughts to bounce back and forth? Well, I don’t and I find incessant talk very annoying because it interferes with my own thoughts. My mind is always cluttered. That’s why I’m forever thinking and trying to organise my thoughts and ideas so they sit neatly in mental files with labels such as Earthworms, Eczema, Egg Dishes, Embroideries, etc.
|Pony owners pay rents to keep their ponies in the club stables|
It’s also irritating especially when I’m reading and he’d sit three feet away and goes on and on. On and on. His words follow my back as I walk to the kitchen for a drink I don’t need, or to the yard to re-water the plants, or to the bathroom where I can at least close the door to end the barrage of words.
I mean, how many times must you tell me that your syce is your jaga-kuda guy and he’s paid a wage at the end of each month? How many times do you need to tell me that a pony is taken swimming in the sea to build up its strength and stamina? Or it eats sunflower seeds and oats in addition to the grass the Bajau call payung-payung. I know the ponies sleep on a pile of sawdust or dried grass they call pinsah. I know the ponies never eat the pinsah except when they’re starving because the syce has forgotten to feed them after feeding all the other ponies under his care.
I know about the grooming as well. The hooves have to be trimmed—potong kuku they call it— and this has to be done by a professional potong-kuku guy because anyone else would be stamped with a hoof or two.
I also know the pony is made ‘pretty’ when it runs on race days. The mane is braided and tied with ribbons. If a pony walked on two legs, you’d mistake it for a beautiful girl. I know because I went to the races a few times when Mr. Hubby was so sure his pony would win and wanted me to bring my camera and zoom lens to take a photo of the pony leading the way to the finish line. Never happened when I was there, by the way.
There, I’ve told you one of my many pet peeves. So sorry if I’ve led you into believing that I am nice and patient. I’m not. I’m just an old woman behaving like any old woman who is forced to listen to pony tales morning, noon and night.