Dear diary,

It appears I am not alone. Following my diary entry last week, I have been flooded with letters, Facebook messages and texts from fellow equines with a strong dislike for the yellow perils. Please note here that I am not actually frightened of them (that would be girlie). I am merely distrusting of their sneaky, daffodil invasion ways.

As a result, I am thinking of setting up a small task force with the sole aim of ridding our fields and general vicinity of those dastardly daffs and their creepy crocus sidekicks. As all the equines I have spoken to are keen on the plan, but not so keen on actually helping me, I am on the hunt to recruit a small militia of goats. I will of course lead the charge in a primarily managerial fashion, ie from the safety of my stable — well, someone has to be cannon fodder and I’d be a far greater loss to the public than a bunch of noisy, smelly cheeses on legs.

Mind you, knowing mother she’d throw me onto the front line just to teach me a lesson or two. This could be due in part, at present, to the slight incident we had whilst lungeing this week. I love lungeing with mum.  As she’s got such a big bottom she resembles a wobbly man at the best of times and when I run around her really fast the centrifuge action makes the resemblance even stronger. As it was it was a blowing a gale, so we must have looked like an overweight slightly limping lion taming an Elvis impersonating unicorn in a sandstorm.

Added to which we have mirrors in our school and I like looking at myself in them. Let’s face it, on a yard of slimmer, thoroughbred types where else can I admire such a muscled specimen of feathered finery?  So the excitement of seeing my feathers fluttering in the force 10 gales, combined with a slight excess of energy and the knowledge Frilly was watching, might have led to me camping it up just a tad. Or in mothers words, “parading about like a poofy Andalucian stallion with a brush up my bottom”.  Personally I think she was missing the poetry of my flowing high tail, flared nostrils, manly high head carriage and a power stride that that Flatlands Dorrito bloke could only dream of.

Admittedly, me swerving rather violently towards her at full speed to avoid flying debris didn’t help. Especially as due to the rather impressive sandstorm caused by the wind and my feet chewing up the ménage her eyes were screwed up like a mole on a sun bed and as such she didn’t see me until I was on top of her. Once she’d removed herself from the large, human-shaped divot in the school, I later heard her telling Aunty V that I nearly leapt into her arms like an equine Scooby Doo, which I am pretty sure wasn’t a compliment?

I did attempt to redeem myself later by being nice to my baby human sister, but apparently not eating her when she pulls my whiskers is just expected. Oh, and for the record, hiding hay in the hood of her little cardigan for her to eat later is not a good thing when the next port of call after the yard is the health visitor. Oooops.

Lesson for the week: if life is like a box of chocolates, why do I always get the walnut whip?

Laters,

Hovis