Dear diary,

What on earth is the woman upstairs playing at? Last week mum was talking about throwing me out into the wilderness to fend for myself, or “turning me out 24/7” as she refers to it and was starting to pack away my winter rugs. I’d been out naked (as too had Dolly — hubba hubba), the clouds on legs were making baby clouds on legs, the yellow perils were out in force and it was clear spring had sprung.

Aunty Emily rode me all week, the sun was out and all was well with the world. Then the woman upstairs had some sort of brain fart and poof! We’re back in winter again.

>>> Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘About as trustworthy as a ginger thoroughbred mare’

It rained so heavily on Saturday that I had visions of having to swim back to the yard and thus dragged aunty H in with such vigour her heels created a bow wave on the soggy grass behind us. By Sunday morning the school looked like a lake and while unhappy to be so soggy I did at least view the situation with the pleasure of not being able to do any work.

Monday saw mum have other ideas and despite it being boggier than my homeland and made me run around in there until my once white feathers were a deep chocolate brown and my belly looked like a can of creosote had exploded on me. This I would be disgruntled enough about in its own right but then she grumblingly scrubbed my feathers to within an inch of their life, and mine, in ice cold water. Gradually like the sun appearing from behind clouds after a storm a faint glimmer of white could be seen emerging sheepishly from the brown, like a girl caught using the gent’s toilets at a nightclub. Much scrubbing (and possibly a few layers of outer dermis) later my legs were white again. Bedraggled but white.

>>> Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘It was like Swan Lake only the budget version — pigeon puddle’

Mum then took the opportunity to spray them with conditioner and comb them into submission. She sneakily tried to distract me from trying valiantly to kick her head in with my back legs by giving me a huge lick but I was not mollified. Besides which I can do more than one thing at once (I get enough practise listening to mother talk poop while fantasising about being rescued by Mary King), so licking and kicking was not a challenge.

Mother did dodge my flying appendage and we managed to get through the much hated job without the need for medical aid — her or me. I was rewarded with a piece of horse Easter egg that mini mother had bought me, which in no way made up for the large tufts of leg hair that mother tried hastily to hide from view. She’s a butcher is that woman…

>>> Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘dismissing the pleasure of riding a rat on steroids in favour of picking up poo’

She’s also still talking about me going out 24/7 at the weekend, a plan I’m desperate to thwart. Its cold, it’s wet and I am a delicate little soul who likes my creature comforts. Besides which when not distracted by mucking out, hay net filling and water trough cleaning mother usually finds more time to make my life miserable prancing about like a large furry flatwork fairy. It’s a lose: lose situation. For me anyway.

So any ideas of how to convince mother that I am way too fragile to sleep outside would be gratefully appreciated. Failing that does anyone want to adopt me?

Laters,

Hovis