Dear diary,

So my name is Hovis. I am a horse. I am also apparently a bank balance draining, emotionally exhausting, heart attack inducing, royal pain in the bottom. Because apparently according to mother there’s the easy way to do something and then there’s the way I do things. Even the eyesight wizard from veterinary vision himself is suggesting I’m special. Which you all knew anyway — but I’m guessing he might mean “special” in a different sort of a way?

So all was going swimmingly after last week’s operation — I was alive and kicking although less than amused to find my somewhat drunken walk out of recovery is now immortalised across the internet for all to see (thank you mother and my Facebook pages).

Me being taken to my operation under general anaesthetic

On Friday I was presented with my new superhero mask which I was very very pleased with — for all of the five minutes it took for someone to suggest I’m looking like I’m wearing one of Madonna’s cast offs from her Vogue period on my head. If one more person starts signing “bra eyes” to the tune of bright eyes at me I may kick them. Which admittedly may miss as I can’t see a thing with this on my face…

The surgeon working his magic

I was however unamused to find out that there are now multiple pictures of my surgery on both my Facebook pages and those of the veterinary vision team. The eye ones are apparently seriously cool and you get to see Chris putting my new lens in. What’s not quite so cool is the ones of me trussed up like a bondage victim by chains from the ceiling — I know I wrote a book called “Fifty Tastes of Hay” people but I’m really not that kind of a guy. Apparently Herman the German Needle man hasn’t stopped laughing and Cool New Shoe’s Man is insisting that’s the position I assume to be shod from now on it. Neither of whom I find funny.

Removing the lens by phacoemulsification

The weekend was much better when Aunty Mary and mums god daughter (and who on earth picks my mother to be a child’s moral compass? Is Aunty Mary MAD?) rocked up with carrots and cuddles and all was well with life. I was chatting up lots of fine young fillies who were totally in awe of both my manliness and my mask (they’re too young to know who Madonna is) and some cool dudes who thought I was the MAN. Clearly there’s nothing wrong with their brains because clearly they are so totally right…

My new plastic lens being fitted

There were plans being made to bring me home and all was going swimmingly.
Until Monday. When the up-until-this-point-lovely vets at Rainbow conducted the sort of sleight of hand I associate with Herman and sent me into la-la land. They did this to apparently “stain my eye”. Which sounds about as much fun as sausage surgery so I’m sort of glad I was away with the fairies. Here they discovered a little problem. Quite literally a little problem, in the form of a small but bafflingly positioned ulcer forming on my eye. Now this was an annoying set back which turned into a slightly more than annoying one when it had grown to five times the size within 24 hours. So I’ve been doped multiple times — I tell you I’ve spent more time off my face this week than a member of TOWIE at a free bar — and had my eye stained several more times to track its progress. I’ve had my eye flushed, washed and more needles stabbed into me than a pin cushion. I swear if I have a drink you could use me as a large under-appreciated watering can.

My eye before the operation

So the good news is it hadn’t got any bigger when mum and the vets had a three-way discussion yesterday (trust me, they’re all on first name terms — sort of like mum and her bank manager…) but I’m still here until they get control and feel that the situation is stable. Which I’m sure is some hideous attempt at humour because mother is never stable and I spend a lot of time in one…

My eye after the operation with my new lens fitted

Continued below…

So maybe I might be home next week but for now I’m still here, still wearing a bra on my head and munching on the carrots that a lovely fan dropped off for me at reception. Life could be worse — I could be at home watching mother apparently jump six foot in the air every time the phone rings while googling the illicit trade in harvested organs in the Middle East…

Laters,
Hovis