Dear Diary

Sadly this may be the last diary I write to you, as I attempt to communicate with you all slowly declining from my sick stable, my trusty companion Harriet the haynet my only solace. Ignored by my hard-nosed wench bag of a mother, who clearly does not understand the serious nature of man flu.

It started last week, as I feebly coughed as she tacked me up ready for a lesson with ginger wench’s mother (see I predicted this last week — mystic mog that’s me). Mother being mother, told me to man up and I need not think spluttering was going to get me out of doing any work; sympathy is not a word in my mother’s vocabulary. So into the driving rain we went, to be yelled at for an hour by a figure encased in so many layers it was like being drilled by Mr Softie. At one point the rain was coming in so hard and sideways, I was executing half passes that the Dorrito dude could only dream of, in an attempt to see where I was going through the deluge.

My mother’s plaintive moans about being wet through to her underwear fell on deaf ears. Even though we did finally get a 10-minute break, when the noise of the waterfall became so loud mother couldn’t hear the instructions being screamed at us, we still had to stand in the barn doing what looked suspiciously like yoga (well mother did — I stood and dripped on the floor). We were still made to go back out into it again when the sound of the rain falling on the roof of the barn slackened, from the noise of a full artillery bombardment to a mere plethora of machine guns.

Despite me standing there shivering like a whippet in a force ten gale, teeth chattering like castanets in a tumble dryer, mother did seem rather chuffed with herself. Needless to say I was less than enthused but as usual no one noticed.

I of course blame this drenching on the full-blown man flu that started to develop over the weekend. My bark is now so good I daren’t go near the coast, for fear of being leapt upon by female seals seeking new blood to do rude seal things with. I did get a touch of something resembling sympathy at the weekend — mother gave me a pear and told me to toughen up. Pure love that’s what that was…

Needless to say I was not surprised when Herman the German needle man made an appearance at the beginning of the week. He confirmed a bout of equine man flu, stuck needles in me, gave me some white marching powder, worryingly left mother instructions to stick more needles in me (I’m really not sure she’s qualified?) and said I was “under zee weather” — yep under several tonnes of rain water thanks to my “I’m not a fair weather rider” sadist of a mother, Mr Needle man.

My undying gratitude to him was swiftly revoked however when he refused to give me a sick note and told mother to “ride me though it” although not to take me hunting. Oh great so I can ponce but not do anything fun? AND you’ve given mother needles. To stick in ME. I have so written a note to myself to stand on his foot next time I see him.

So I have a feeling I’m in for another session with mother and ginger fly-trap’s mother, which I am not looking forward to. At least I have aunty Becky who brought me treats and gave me sympathetic cuddles, see she’s nice and not a heartless northern hard-nosed wench bag like my mother. I need adopting swiftly — by someone who can actually spell sympathy would be good.

So needless to say diary, I am in need of bags of carrots, treats, cuddles and at least an hour with an energetic mare with low morals — hey, it might kill me but at least I’d die happy.

Yours hoarsely

Hovis