Ponies are ace. Kate Beaton understands this:
On my route into work I pass two ponies in a field. They’re on the left-hand side of a right turn as I see them (vice versa in the dark on the way home). They wander around a triangle of land, chewing on things, occasionally huddling together if the weather’s awful, sniffing each other from time to time. They’re fat, placid, and entirely hilarious. In the evenings the entire area where they plod around is a velvety black, but it makes me smile to imagine them out there, dozing.
This morning the ponies were nowhere to be seen. In their place was, of all things, a car. It was a red, Micra-shaped vehicle, sitting oddly parallel to the road and with its back to me. It had clearly been making its way round the corner I was approaching and took the corner too quickly, displaying the same judgment as the majority of drivers I encounter (later on, having passed the aftermath of an accident caused by excessive speed on a blind corner, the tragically coupéd J1 PUK overtook me at excessive speed on another blind corner).
Either the red car was going too fast for its own tyres, or too fast for the driver to react to an oncoming vehicle overtaking on the bend, but based on its angle to the road I think it slewed off. Regardless, the driver had managed through lack of insight and care to land his scrap metal in the ponies’ enclosure. Ahead of me, my side of the road was cordoned off by Kardos—the local vehicle recovery service that randomly burns barrels of God-only-knows-what on their land every few days, because there’s infinite atmosphere, isn’t there?—and a handful of workies were making hamfisted attempts to extract the car and get out of the way.
But I couldn’t care less about the damn car. My only worry was: what the hell had happened to those ponies?
Only once I’d past the Kardos lorries did I spot my early-morning companions, cordoned off in a corner of the field. They were far enough away to be hard to spot, their stances hard to interpret, but I think the blond pony was looking placidly at the scene, as if to say “well, this does seem to have happened; I’m just waiting for it to blow over and get back out onto that lovely scrubby grass.” I spotted what looked like his dark-brown companion behind, looking away. I grinned madly with relief: the ponies were safe, and as cute as ever.
Oh, apparently there’s an election in the colonies tonight. Vote Pony!