having lost Maudie I was forced to walk—and through all that traffic—and do you know, not a single soul offered me a lift.—Oh no, I'm wrong—there was one steam-roller driver in Kingston High Street who very kindly said, " May I offer you a lift ? " So I said, " That's awfully good of you—where are you going ? " And he said, " To the end of the High Street," and I said, " How far's that ? " And he said, " About fifty yards." So I said, " Well, where are you going after that ? " He said, " I'm coming back here— just rolling the road." So I said, " It's awfully good of you, but I've really got to get back to London." It seems rather pointless popping backwards and forwards on a steam-roller, don't you think ? He was a very reasonable sort of chap and he saw my point of view, and he said, " I really wouldn't have offered you a lift, but I thought it might make a nice change." Rather decent of him, don't you think ? Or don't you ? Of course, with regard to the actual training of Maudie we were faced with great difficulties, because she is essentially a town horse—she has a very rooted dislike for anything that comes from the country, I'll never forget when I was staying on a farm with Maudie, the stables were filled with carthorses and Maudie used to shudder every time she passed the stables. And when she returned to Town she was very upset, because every time she neighed she had a   distinct rustic accent. So, after a long consultation with my brother-in-law Claud, we decided that it would be best if we could train Maudie in a London environment, somewhere if possible that would remind her of the actual racecourse. So we chose the Tottenham Court Road— that would keep the Tattenham Corner in front of her at least. And everything would have been quite all right only, as you know, Maudie lost the Grand National because she couldn't jump, and of course jumping was so essential in the Grand National . . . and being a horse that doesn't know the meaning of defeat, if she couldn't jump a fence, she'd bite her way through it. Of course, I'm all for perseverance —but that sort of thing does delay in a race . . . why, we were in and out of Becher's Brook like a couple of performing seals all the afternoon . . . but since the Grand National she's gone to the opposite extreme, and now she can do nothing but jump, and when we got to Tottenham Court Road early one morning, she started leaping over a taxi-cab—the driver was awfully nice about it and said he didn't want to complain in the least, but that sort of thing was so confusing when you're driving . . . and of course, he was quite right, you know. . . . Then he said he really would have to send for a policeman if she didn't stop, and while I was talking to him she kept leaping and bounding over the
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