I am in fairly severe trouble. The courgette soup is not working.

In life, I labour under the entirely unproven belief that almost anything can be cured by the judicious application of soup. It’s not so much the eating of soup, although of course this must help, with all its goodness and nutritional marvellousness; it’s the making of it and the preparing of it. Even the quickest soup can’t be too rushed; there must be chopping and contemplation. It’s a back to first principles thing, which may soothe the unquiet mind.

It doesn’t have to be chicken soup either, although that is of course the gold standard. It can be any soup. Just at the moment, I am in a vogue for green soups, probably because my body is craving the iron.

There are horse people visiting. I am beside myself with delight. It means that the full beauty of the mare may be appraised by an expert eye. I find I crave an expert eye.

Getting a horse after thirty years of not having one obeys several laws of unintended consequences. One of them is monomania. I suppose I might have expected that, but I did not. I thought I’d just go for a ride each day, and have someone whose ears I could pull. Instead, I plunge into equine obsession. I am like the little pony girls who only read the Pullein-Thompsons and think that all other literature is bosh. (I actually was one of those little girls; clearly, that jodhpur-booted child still lives in me.)

So when the horse people arrive, I am in seventh heaven. I may speak the language of horse without having to stop and explain myself. There are little things I notice, too. I find an odd, keen pleasure in watching someone who knows how to approach an animal they have never met. There is a rather touching politesse in it. The thing is to come slightly from one side, so the creature can see you, with an open, relaxed body, and to hold out a hand so that it can be smelt. Some people do this with an open palm, some with a slightly curled fist, knuckles upward. The horse then can have a good sniff. Scent is very important. Then there is a miniscule pause, almost a little exchange of information, like businesspeople swapping cards. The horse will lower its head, almost give a small nod of acquiescence, and only then may one give it a stroke.