The problem with gift horses is not so much that we look them in the mouth (what does that mean?) but that we often don’t see them at all.
They’re there, in our field of vision, but don’t make into our field of dreams. Weirdly, the more real they are the more fantastic they become, and the more fantastic something is, the less able we are to see it.
Fantasy, reality, (gift) horses, fields of dreams – you could be forgiven for thinking I’m harking back to French fields all over again, but I am only in a poetic sense. That poetic way words link random ideas, ambiguity creates connections, similes stimulate and revelations reveal themselves at odd, sometimes opportune, moments.
A gift horse has been sitting in front of me, in full view, for months, and I’ve only just unclouded my vision enough to see it for what it is.
It’s a departure, not for France but to old, old England. It was a parting gift, a gesture of friendship. A gift shared; gifted, guilt-free and gold-plated.
A gift I finally accepted. A gift that could be worth, literally, pounds.