Yesterday evening New Girl and I were walking across the hot car park feeling flustered and sticky and, on my part, a bit drab, and resenting sleek young things passing us by who looked as though they walked along in a bubble of air conditioned comfort - air conditioning that wasn't blowing hard, because their hair stayed beautifully styled, unruffled.
As far as I'm concerned New Girl never looks drab or flustered - whereas 'flustered' appears to be an integral part of my psyche - but she said she felt that way yesterday in the heat.
So we trudged long, feeling bitter about all these cool, unflappable missies, when New Girl burst out with, "And what's with all the glossy hair? My hair is never glossy. Actually, you're one of that brigade. It has to stop, haze, at once."
Suddenly all my hateful feelings fluttered away. I beamed. Seriously - I beamed! "Do you think I have glossy hair?! No! My hair isn't glossy? Is it, do you think so, really?" New Girl confirmed that it was so.
I felt so bucked up I wanted to rear up on my hind legs, whinnying, and then canter around the car park. I settled for a stroke of my mane and a couple of cubes of sugar instead.