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Excerpt from For me, there's nothing like Saturday afternoons for hitting the keys in peace - not the warm ivories on which Mother would have had me tap out a Brahms lullaby - but the dinky, grey squares of my second hand laptop. I have a routine. Before starting, I like to make the beds, wash the pots and dust the living room because only then, thesaurus on my right, style guide and Spanish phrasebook on my left, can I seriously begin willing up the muse. I don't go chasing after elusive ideas, I just sit and wait for them to strike. Last week, not long after lunch, I was nicely settled on my swivel, staring at the wall, wondering where I'd left my glasses, when there was a knock at the door. Lucho, the farm manager, silver spurs and best straw hat in hand - work finishes at 12.00pm Saturdays - smiled encouragingly when I answered. "Usted me dijo que quería ayudar con las vacas - vamos! " Without remembering when I'd said I was interested in helping to round up cattle, I nodded, not just happy for the experience, but grateful for the distraction. As a writer I might spend a lot of time reliving the past and dreaming up the future, but it's the present that affords the meat, even on Saturday afternoons. I'm not completely new to riding; I know that horses have brown eyes, are easily startled, and must be approached from the left. I also know heeled boots, tight pants and protective headgear is necessary. I ran to change. After a hefty heave up from the top of a big log, we set off, Lucho, the true cowboy ahead on a skewbald stallion and me behind on a bay mare. It was a dull, windless afternoon. The missing animals had broken through some rusty wire on the nearby hillside and needed corralling before they strayed too far. I settled into the deep, fur-lined armchair, which passes for a saddle in Chile, prickling with anticipation and the ever-so-slight feeling I should have gone to the bathroom before mounting. As we plodded along to the twittering of small birds above, the hiss of invisible crickets below and the occasional harrumph of the horses, memories of Father's favourite films surfaced. |