When it came to the point, I couldn't throw him out. As I was clearing the garage at 20, he emerged from a stack of canes and wood in a far corner, where he's been for the last - how long? Sixty years? He was made from a white sock, and once had a handsome black mane and ears, and a very eager expression, as opposed to a world-weary one. I've no idea why I called him Flyaway (not after the LAX - Union Station bus, I'm sure, which is the resonance that the name carries for me now). His stable mate was Triermain, which was the name of a very ruined castle near us in Cumberland, and I don't know what happened to him. He was more poshly made from some kind of brown felt-like material - I assume by my father - and never had Flyaway's personality. I used to gallop them round and round the garden, and jump over home-made show jumps (red and white painted bamboo canes, and bricks). It was a huge, but wonderful shock to come upon him when I was back, even if, I'll admit, he's a little the worse for wear, and I just managed to fit him diagonally into a suitcase.
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