Last night for my niece's all-but-sleepover with the twins, we watched National Velvet (1944), which none of them had encountered in years of riding lessons and generalized horse-madness. It was well-received, with questions about the exchange rates of century-old pre-decimal currency and universal indignation that Velvet couldn't have won riding as a female jockey in her own right, so I should remember to tell them about Rachael Blackmore. I am now being serenaded by three ten-year-olds who may not remember any of the lyrics beyond the title tongue-twister of "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," but they are invested in saying it loud enough for sure.
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