Dear Diary

The madness continues. I am doomed to a winter of hell, made to endure horrific conditions, to suffer the evils of mother nature at her worse, all because my mother has decided she’s “not a fair weather rider”.  Where this new woman of steel has come from I know not, the old version of my mother didn’t like to ride out if there was a smell of water in the air or a puff of wind, and quite frankly I’m starting to think I preferred the old version…

To be fair, this desire to work me no matter what, may have partly stemmed from a small incident last week. After mother had made me ride out in awful wind and rain, I may have possibly been a bit too enthusiastic on a hack out with Aunty Becky a few days later. Just a tiny weeny bit. Like when she asked for a nice trot, I might have given her a very fast canter. Possibly. Twice. I do disagree with her text to mother — the term “peeing off with me” is a little extreme. I’d call it give more revs in the engine than the driver asked for perhaps?

Anyway, that did seem to result in Aunty Becky working me harder than usual for the rest of the week “practising” my stressage moves ahead of our competition in a few weeks time. This I found as depressing as the weather, so I sulked. A lot. Sadly no one noticed…

The weekend was redeemed slightly by a request from Aunt Sarah for Aunt Sam and me to accompany her and Foxy out on a hack. I like to think this is because I am a manly dependable type, wingman extraordinaire and general all-round super dude. Mother said it was because there was no one else available. I do dislike mother sometimes… Foxy did seem happy that I was there to hold her hoof as we crossed the lair of the metal snakes, and I am hopeful of her needing me to body guard her some more over the coming weeks, “hubba-hubba!”

Then on Monday, what was left of my mother’s marbles, left the space between her ears like marbles in a game of Kerplunk. The weather was truly awful, rain coming in so fast I was discussing ark building with Billy and contemplating life as a sea horse. Even the boss lady looked askance when mum and Aunty C walked in with our tack and stated that they were very “determined”. I’d use the word “nuts” myself but I have long since realised trying to talk my mother out of something when she’s made her mind up, is like trying to convince that Flatlands Dorrito bloke not to prance about like a fairy at a Morris dancing competition.

Needless to say, despite my attempts at evasive action Billy and I were soon squinting through the rain, dodging rain drops the size of golf balls and generally wondering how it was our lot in life to have ended up with such barking mad mothers. What made the situation worse, was that we were both clad in bright yellow rain sheets, clearly intended to allow astronauts to see our bums from space. Both were meant to be waterproof. One wasn’t. Any guesses whose?

We did at least get to canter, although due to the driving rain and Billy deciding to channel his inner dressage fairy, my canter was a little sideways, apparently resembling a crab on e-numbers. Mother was not amused and did “encourage straightness” — if that’s what you call the liberal application of a schooling whip down ones rather soggy bum cheek…

The only thing that made me fractionally better was seeing how much mother resembled a drowned rat when we got back to the yard, and her slightly guilty proclamation that she might have to buy me a new rain sheet. Mind you, knowing my luck it will be pink with “wide load” across the back…

The final straw though came when she posted a video of her scratching my withers on my Facebook pages — the fact that I shut my eyes and sway about like Stevie Wonder in turbulence is something that should have stayed between my mother and me, not to be shared with the world and his wife. I look like a special equine version of the Churchill nodding dogs.

Added to the fact Aunty Becky wants to “practise” plaiting me up this week and I may well kiss the remaining shreds of my street cred goodbye. If she puts pink bands in my mane, I may not be responsible for my actions, so dear diary if I don’t write next week can someone get me a good solicitor or a cake with a file in it?

Yours

Hovis