A Horse Called Elvis

 Things hang around in your head for years, like old photographs in an album. Or old books in a box. Faces and feelings gather dust at the back of your mind and you seem to forget about them. But you don’t. The album falls open one day – or you come upon a box – and it’s all there again, crisp and clear.

I’m going through things I don’t use any more, boxes of old toys and books. A photograph album. There’s a photo of me and a gangly foal only a few weeks old, his eyes startled and red from the flash.
Who is he, this horse called Elvis?

The simple answer is that he’s just a six year old liver chestnut that I’ve grown up with. But there is another answer, one that includes Nick, Jaz, Mum and Dad. And me. 

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