Dear diary,

I am pleased to announce that operation fight back continues to go well. Not that this should come as any surprise — I am, after all, the Destroyer by day and Hoverine by night. Although to be fair, the cape and mask haven’t yet turned up which is alarming — I thought the point of being a superhero is no one was supposed to know who you are? Mum has been heard commenting that there isn’t enough material in the western hemisphere to hide my bottom but then hello! Pot, kettle, black? Herman the German Needle Man actually commented what a great weight I was the other week and how amazing I looked for a horse that hasn’t worked in a year and was staring down the barrel of a gun 12 months ago. I note he didn’t comment on mum’s weight. But then again, we also know he’s not very brave. Not unless he’s on the other end of the phone, preferably in a different country (if not continent) to she-who-scares-most-people.

Aunty Em and I continue to progress under the agreement that I try to behave and she stays on top of me at all times. She has reported back to mother I am an angel with feathers. I’m not sure mother entirely believes her, but then mother operates under the glorious delusion that she’s not a bad horse woman and as such she’s as capable as the next man (or indeed woman) at getting a tune out of me. Firstly, I’m not a blinking harmonica and secondly, mother possesses about as much skill in the horsemanship as the flattened mouse she found in my hay bale the other week possessed in escape and evasion…

In an attempt to ensure a lack of explosions, mother put me on the lunge the other day while hobbling around the school as fast as possible to ensure I effectively lunged on the outer circle and not in a small inner one. Walk was easy enough but trot definitely taxed her and she had to limp very quickly. This amused me as it looked like quasimodo doing the circle of death on foot. So I may have chucked in a cheeky canter. The good news is, according to those passing by, it looked great the bad news is mother couldn’t comment because she was nearly face down in the school spitting sand. I found it hilarious. I’m sensing she didn’t, but then she is sensitive — friction burns can make you that way, who knew?

So this week was Valentine’s Day — the day of lurve apparently. Sadly the one female on our yard didn’t get that memo and I am bereft of love. In fact, the last time she showed me any affection was weeks ago when she leapt upon me and literally sucked my face off. I was thoroughly over excited by this unusual but none the less welcome signs of enthusiastic petting. Until I realised she was literally licking the molasses from my lick off my moustache. Harlot.

So this week the closest thing I’ve got to any lovin’ is some very come hither glances from Bob (although to be fair I think they were more at my lick than actually at me) and some very strange winking from the little ginger dude across the barn. Although again to be fair he could have had a stray bit of hay in his eye…

Continued below…

I think I need some new women in my life. Now I’m all fit and about to set the equine world on fire I need groupies. Of the mare kind. The moral free mare kind. The energetic moral free mare kind. Any offers? This hunk of manlihood is an offer no lady should be able to refuse. Not unless she has the brains and the killjoy attitude possessed by the she-who-must-be-obeyed…

So I’m going to await the clearly delayed delivery of my Valentine’s Day cards (I get it people — you didn’t want to make the other dudes in the barn feel inferior) and the applications for chief groupie to start pouring in. Please send photo and relevant particulars to my management team or post them to my Facebook pages (because I is down with the digital generation) and I will select some lucky ladies.

Laters,
Hovis