Dear diary

What a week. I feel I might have been too early to dismiss the idea of adoption. Not because I necessarily want to be adopted but because the other option is mother tying me to a tree at the side of the road somewhere and leaving me there.

The weekend caused some fun and games, as now we have been moved to our summer fields, it’s quite a trek back to the yard. Which for someone of mother’s stature (i.e. very short and round) is a struggle at the best of times. So me shying at the very real monsters that were hiding in the long grass and then towing her across the fields, was probably not my best move. Especially since the boss lady was walking Dolly behind me at the time. Dolly clearly decided that getting out of dodge was a team game and took off as well. It’s fair to say, I didn’t know that that lovely petite blonde haired lady could swear as impressively as mother can but heh I do now!

So I was already hovering around the entrance of the dog house before we did some work in the school. When I say “work”, I mean I danced about a LOT, executed some fantastic, but non-requested, walk-to-canter transitions and completed some incredible shoulder-in work. The fact I was being asked to walk in a straight line at the time, is a mere irrelevance…

My copy book was further blotted when Aunty Becky came to take me out two days later. Now in my defence, I haven’t seen her in a while so I was VERY excited and she decided to take me out in a snaffle.

For a hack.

On my own.

In a snaffle.

When there were tractors about.

In a snaffle.

Without a wingman

We may have come face-to-face with a tractor and I may have decided evasive action was required. I may have turned about face and buggered off across a crop field at high speed. Aunty Becky may have had complete and total brake failure due to me being in a snaffle. I may have been rather pleased with myself when I finally pulled up. Aunty Becky may not have been quite so thrilled…

She did report back to mother that my outline and prancing all the way home was impressive enough to have got me a place at that Spanish dance school. Mother may have been heard sobbing hysterically about vets bills and why does she bother…

THEN Cool New Shoes Man came to visit and sent hours doing my feet, as apparently they had grown a lot and he needed to move my toe backwards or something. All I know, is we’d have got done a lot quicker if he hadn’t been taking selfies of him with my bum. Which actually sounds even dodgier when you write it down. The results were some very moody smoke-filled black and white shots of my bottom, which fans on my Facebook pages lapped up faster than my mother downs fizz. Seriously do NOT encourage the man. Mum said they looked like some sort of boudoir shots from one of these companies that take rude pictures of ladies. I refute this completely a) I was dressed (I had my tubi grip around my feathers thank you VERY much) and b) I am not setting hoof in a bedroom with CNSM — he kisses me in public for gawds sake…

Anyway, I’m pretty sure pictures of my bum without my permission are some sort of breach of my equine rights. Perverts the lot of you.

In final news, I note that Mr Ben Hobnob took a half Clydesdale around Badminton last week. Well HELLO?! I am a Clydesdale of *cough* questionable parentage and everyone with a brain and ability to read knows what a cross-country machine I am. If he’s allowed to do it, what’s wrong with Mr Knickerless and Mr Village-end? They are never going to beat Mr Fox-in-a-Hole if they don’t have a secret weapon — and here I am folks! Flying feather power in fine form. Seriously people have a word with them. Failing that, can someone ask Ben if he fancies a Hob-nob and Hovis combination?

I will go and wait by the phone in anticipation.