Dear Diary

I’d like it on record that I’d like a refund. I am a serious unhappy horse with absolutely no superpowers, a hole in my feather and more needles in my neck than a pin cushion. I am NOT impressed.

I’ve had to listen to Herman the German rapping, been sent to la-la land no less than three times in the last three weeks and have had to stay in three nights. I have SUFFERED people. And that’s before I even talk about mother’s bandage removal skills, which seem to involve ripping half my leg off at the same time. Oh, AND the appalling radio stations I have been subjected to. Quite frankly Herman and mother should be hired by the CIA. Rendition flights? Half an hour with the pair of them and anyone with a brain cell, regardless of beliefs, would be begging to head for whatsit-bay just to get away from them both.

So last Friday saw the last day of my supposed transformation in Hoverine the superhorse. I was actually excited, rather foolishly believing I’d get my superhero starter kit, complete with cape and mask. Silly me. No, what I actually got was an express ticket to tweetie-pie-ville, a whopping great needle into my leg and a bandage that made my leg look like a green cannelloni.

To add to the insult mum tied my tail up with bailing twine (oh, the shame) and Herman sprayed my white feather silver; I look like an unfortunate accident at a scrap yard.

Whilst I stood in drugged mutinous dismay at the complete lack of cape, mask or other superhero apparel, Herman announced he was most happy with me. Yep, I bet his bank manager is even happier – trade descriptions here anyone? Mutation into a superhero does not mean granting me the power to single hoofedly pay for the moat at Herman Towers. Unless I discover I’ve got x-ray vision in the next 28 days, I want my money back…

Anyway back in borings-ville mother and Herman were discussing the next steps whilst I plotted where I was going to hide their bodies. Apparently starting next week I have to do 30 minutes a day in walk in the school and THEN two hacks a week. In walk. Hacking. In the countryside. In WALK. After most of this year off. In WALK. (I hope you’re starting to get the picture…)

Even mother fell about in such fits of hysterics that I thought Herman was going to jab her ass with a sedative just to calm her down (that by the way wouldn’t be any reflection on his talents at needle placement; it would be like aiming at the sun – a big blindingly obvious target). He did about face and come back with several tubes of what I deduced to be sedative. Between the hysterical laughter mother was heard asking who was supposed to take it, her or me, but let’s face it we all know who the one with issues is…

Mother has been seen on my facebook pages frantically trying to find someone to come and ride me out. I can see why this would be a massive honour, but mother and I have managed 10 years together and I’ve not killed her yet. Although admittedly at times not through lack of trying…

The other issue is who can be my wingman. As me walking on a hack is a big enough ask without asking me to go alone. My main squeeze is the usual option, but to be fair she walks faster than me so I have to jog to keep up which is an apparent no-no when mother has spent the equivalent of a third world countries national debt trying to get me fixed.

My field friend, the ginger high maintenance one, strikes me as being about as much use as a chocolate fire guard in a crisis and certainly wouldn’t front up to the tractors of terror when he wilts like a wallflower when mother simply quirks an irked eyebrow in his direction.

The new dark brown dude on the yard might be an option – he looks relatively sane and mother likes him, which is in fairness usually a recipe for disaster. She loved my old mate Billy but that didn’t stop the pair of us carting her and Aunty C into the next county on occasion.

The two smaller ginger dudes wouldn’t keep up and the old guy would need a piggy back so I’m running out of options.

Mum wondered about someone on a bike, but to be honest I’m not sure that a steel steed is a: going to keep up with me and b: provides enough of a sacrifice to throw under the wheels of a tractor of terror if the need arose. Last time mum came on a bike when Aunty Becks rode me she nearly feel off in a ditch and sounded like the soundtrack to a prawn video – there was more panting than at kennel club convention in a heat wave.

So I can see mum having to swallow a tube of sedaline, get some very big girls pants on and make like Nike (think about it, you’ll get there in the end…). If any of you see a brown and white streak trailing clouds of expletives and a seriously bad hair do – that’ll be us…

I’ll keep you posted.
Laters,
Hovis