Pony Widower:
(Or, 'I Live with a 20-Something Pony Addict')
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| What does she see in you, Bubbles? |
It's been three years since they came. It seemed just like any other
weekend's house sitting at Linnie's folks. I didn't suspect what would
come from a brief trip to the loft to reclaim some old ponies. No harm
in Linnie getting out some of her old toys I thought. And for a while
everything was fine. The dozen or so ponies sat inoffensively on the window
sill of our flat and that, it seemed, was that. Just another piece of
kitsch objet d'art to adorn our retro pad.
This state of peaceful equilibrium was short-lived. Soon it became clear
that it was the ponies that had the upperhand.
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| Why? Why? Why? |
The problem is there are just too many places where you can pick up a
pony: in a charity shop; at a flea market, but most of all at a car boot
sale. And this was where it became clearest that the ponies were in charge.
The Sunday morning lie-in gradually disappeared, as rising at dawn we
set out for still-frost-covered fields filled with rusty hatchbacks brimming
with old toys. It was here that I first realised how serious Linnie's
MLP habit had become.
At one boot sale, we came across a box-full of choice ponies, plus a
big plastic castle thing (which, I was made to understand, was an item
of great rarity and beauty). Linnie was about to put in a bid for the
whole lot, when she was gazzumped by an old lady standing next to us.
My girlfriend's usually angelic face twisted into a mask of pure hatred.
Restraining her physically and guiding her back towards the car I tried
to placate her by reasoning that the ponies had probably been bought by
a doting nanna for her grandchildren and would be played with and loved.
'No you idiot, she was a pony dealer. That filthy old bitch stole my ponies",
replied Linnie. I pointed out, as was now clear, that she was also an
MLP collector. 'Yes, but I would have given that girl a fair price for
her MLP's instead of swindling her like that old maggotbag."
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| Baby Bow Tie watching Ted watching TV |
It was now obvious that a passing whim to get down some old toys from
the attic had developed into full-blown addiction. Soon Linnie's conversation
was peppered with pony slang, and it became hard to gain her interest
unless talking about small plastic horses. She became listless and despondent
in the weeks between car boot sales and long intervals between pony purchases
could leave her tetchy and irritable. Clearly, hunting for ponies on foot
was no longer adequate.
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| They're everywhere! I swear they're breeding! |
My girlfriend designs web-sites. It is something she is very good at,
and a career she enjoys. However, I can't help feeling that her choice
of job and her purchase of a PC (ostensibly to further her web skills)
have really been driven by her need for more and more MLP fixes. Her computer
now essentially functions as an on-line pony conduit. E-mails to friends
are peppered with requests to forward money to MLP dealers. Correspondence
with dealers now makes the bulk of her e-mail correspondence. Internet
Explorer on her PC, unsurprisingly opens up at e-bay. I am now accustomed
to her breaking off conversation, or intimate meals together to catch
the end of a pony auction.
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| I'll get you, you little plastic *@!$£s! |
For now the ponies have won. They take up space on our shelves that used
to be filled with pictures of friends and family, with books and cards.
Each one is lovingly washed and groomed. Each one has a card tag with
its name in silver writing. When I go to bed at night, the last thing
I see before falling asleep and the first thing I see when I wake up are
ponies, hundreds of ponies. They stare at me with those cold, blue, blank
plastic eyes. I can't help feeling that they are trying to tell me something,
trying to tell me that soon it will be me on the shelf with the piece
of card round my neck and my name in silver writing.
To further help you understand the horror of my situation, see the schedule
of my day. Or, if you sympathise with my plight, sign my guestbook.
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