First of all, I know, I should be working. And I will get back to work. Today was rather a bust because my better half otherwise known as my Hubby, was home. If any of you has ever tried to write a novel while sharing a room with a spouse, you will understand when I say it’s impossible. It’s not because he doesn’t understand I need to concentrate. It’s just that he can’t be in the same room as I am without asking me questions about every five minutes. Or turning on the television, getting up and leaving the room and leaving the TV on, or standing right behind me, looking over my shoulder, reading what I’ve written in a very serious voice.

He wants attention. And since he’s not home that often, I gave up and gave him some attention. Anyhow, as most of you know he’s a polo player and travels a lot and is gone a lot, so I am thrilled to have him underfoot. Most people don’t know what a polo player implies, except they have visions of very wealthy people galloping around on shiny little steeds called Polo Ponies (they are horses, really. Polo Pony is just what they’re called.) But that is only true for a small percentage of polo players. There are the rich and famous, but they are not the professionels, they are the patrons. In fact, professional polo players are horse people, and like most people in the riding and the horse business, it’s mostly living on a tight budget but we’ve been priviledged to live in some gorgeous places, and it’s nice to rub elbows with the rich and famous, lol. My husband was 8 goals and now he’s 5 goals. Ten is the best you can be, and minus two means you’re just starting. It’s a lot of fun, can be dangerous, and is gorgeous to watch if you ever get a chance, do go and see a game.

And hardly anyone believes I’m married to a polo player. Once when I was in the supermarket a man came up to me with a clipboard and asked if I would answer a questionaire. I said “Of course!” He started by asking how old I was. I lied, of course, and said 30. He raised his eyebrows, looked at my three kids, and said, “Is that your real age?” I said no, and added two more years. He still didn’t believe me so I said, “Well, put down 39, it’s close enough.” He did, sighed, and asked me if I had any children. I pointed to my three. He put that down on the paper. Then he looked at me and said, “What does your husband do?” Well, that was an easy one. I gave him a big smile and said, “He’s a professional polo player.”

The man stared at me for a minute. Then he took the paper off the clipboard and tore it right down the middle. “If you’re not going to tell the truth, you shouldn’t have agree to the questionaire,” he snarled, and stomped away, leaving my three kids howling with glee, and my face bright tomato red.

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