Standing outside a house in Silver Lake, with no apparent purpose other than to cheer up one's day: s trompe-l'oeil skewbald pony looking out from a little stable. I would have loved a pony like that outside my house when I was little, for the times when real live ponies from the stables at the top of the road weren't walking up and down (my father, in addition to writing his letter about beer that was published in yesterday's Times, was busy this week sending comments to Merton Council about the plans submitted to renovate the stables and turn them back into a riding school, so perhaps the sound of clopping hooves will be heard in the street again soon).
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