Wall Horses

I don’t have a real horse. I’d like one, but… you know. They cost a bit.
So, instead of a real horse, I have wall horses.
Wall horses are one of the benefits of living in a dilapidated and really rather shabby bungalow that needs to be entirely re-decorated once it has been re-built.
Wall horses are pretty and they brighten up a dreary room. They canter and frolick all over the old paint, and make me happy, even, for example, when the pneumatic drill outside is knocking the two litre fabric conditioner bottle off the shelf in the kitchen and spilling its contents all over the rancid Bakelite floor squares.
Shirley Valentine spoke to her wall. I didn’t find my walls that personable. But if you have horses up there, then you can offload your stress to them very easily, and they will gallop off with it. It’s really very clever.
In fact, I don’t just have wall horses. There are all sorts of etchings. You might say that I am trying to create a squad of mini Banksies, because any kind of graffiti is positively encouraged in our home. If a wall is doomed to be demolished, it will be drawn on. The little Seymours like to scribble mercilessly upon it, and invite their visiting friends to do the same.
One day, the wall will be knocked down. The kitchen will merge with another room, and the wall horses and all their friends will crumble. Decorating will happen. There will be a sudden ban on graffiti, and the little Seymours will not recognise the crazed, house-proud stranger in their midst. I would worry about the mixed messages the wall horses are currently sending, but by the time our walls are decorated, the little Seymours won’t be little any more, and will probably not be so inclined to write “poo” with a Sharpie on them anyway.
But for now, I am going to enjoy my wall horses, because they’re pretty. And I’m sure I’ll miss them when they’re gone.