Dear Diary

Someone please help me; I need rescuing, rather urgently.  Since I have been abandoned by my sharer, mother seems to be on a one woman crusade to a) find me a new sharer and b) regain her previous levels of ability as a rider.  Which might make her qualified to ride a seaside donkey by the time that party in Rio comes around…

At the weekend, Aunt Sam took me out for some fun hacking, commenting again how fit I am and how “up for it” I was.  I’m not sure what I was “up” (a tree is a little ambitious given my physical bulk — I’m not exactly squirrel boy) but it seemed to be a compliment. But then on Sunday it started.  Mother’s announcement that she’s riding like a complete wally (no change there then) and her desire to get her bum into gear (be afraid people that’s a LOT of bum).

So what followed was 30 minutes of mother doing away with those things that are rather necessary in my view to prevent her falling off — yes stirrups — and swaying about like a drunken Stevie Wonder at a rave party.  Every time I went around a corner I had to bring my shoulder up to my ear to try to keep mum in the saddle.  She seemed to be blissfully unaware of this heroic and selfless act and accused me of not being straight and moving in a funny manner.  You’re not kidding it was in a funny manner:  I must have looked like a cross between the hunch back of Notre Dame and Sebastian the crab.

Quite what on earth processed her to decide to trot and canter with no stirrups I will never know but after the first corner in canter, I was wearing mum like a human indicator at the side of my head.  Needless to say after that she stuck to walk and trot and it was still the longest 30 minutes of my life.

Since then she has done nothing but moan about her legs and how out of shape she is.  I did nearly point out she is a shape — round is definitely a shape — but I decided that such a comment may be unwise.  I have discovered on several occasions that mother can be a little feisty when I point out she’s a tad cresty and may be prone to laminitis.  Touchy she is, very touchy.

In other news, I have now made friends with the little spotty dude on the yard.  I do confess to having a bit of a problem with the spotty types since I had my backside kicked by an appaloosa mare after I questioned if her dad was a Friesian. A Friesian cow that was…

However he has forgiven me for trying to kill him on a hack, with my much missed wingman Hot Stepper, and I have accepted that just because he looks like polka dots on legs, he’s actually a cool dude.   His field abuts mine and we’ve been hanging out and generally chilling.  He also might have aided me in removing my much hated fly mask a few times.  Maybe.  Needless to say we have both denied this and blamed sudden gusts of wind for these strange phenomena. Mum and the Boss lady remain unconvinced.

So my search for a sharer continues, my mother is walking like John Wayne, my invite for the Burghley party appears to have been lost in the post and I’m chilling out with a dude who looks like a walking dot-to-dot puzzle.  It’s been a very funny week, very funny indeed.

Laters

Hovis