Dear diary,

So I remain in a box. Resting. It’s seriously BORING. The most exciting part of the day is seeing which radio station the boss lady chooses for me — although last week’s experiment of classical FM was NOT appreciated at all…

Mind you, last week in general was more than a tad pants. After a week of abject boredom, Friday saw Herman the German turn up with mother in hot pursuit. I watched in interest as a vast amount of equipment was taken from the van and set up on a little table next to my stable and more excitingly I was head collared and led to stand in the gangway. Maybe perhaps my enforced captivity was about to come to an end? No. No, it was MUCH worse.

So after scrubbing my neck within an inch of its life as if I was some sort of unclean type, Herman produced a needle the length and diameter of a samurai sword and proceeded to stab me with it. Two minutes later and he’s stitching a cannular into my shaven neck. What was even worse is the thread was PURPLE. The man has no feelings and definitely no shame…

I was then hooked up to a bag of granny juice which was rigged off the top of the stable bars, which was humiliating enough. One sneaky addition of la-la juice into the cannular and I was away with the fairies while Herman practised his hairdressing skills on my already massacred leg feather. By all accounts, I had my leg scrubbed so hard you could have been mistaken for thinking Herman was hoping for a genie to appear and then my joint injected. The first thing I knew about it was starting to come round and spotting the large bandage I was now sporting. Herman picked that moment to start to have a look at the still present sore patch at the back of my front leg so I decided to try and use his head as a football. Luckily for Herman, his reactions are fast and I was still weaving about like a drunken maypole dancer so I missed. He didn’t seem too excited about playing human piñata so poof, and with one small addition into my cannular, I was back in tweetie pie land. When I came around the second time I had yet more massacred feather and a hangover. Life stinks.

Life stank even more when I realised mum had removed my hay nets and water and I was STARVING. The evil one who should be obeyed did arrive back a few hours later where she was less than amused to hear I’d been kicking the door down for the past hour. She was overheard muttering something about not having an insurable leg between us as she stormed past like a bad tempered tumble weed, but to be honest I was that hungry I didn’t care.

It was only later that night when I’d eaten my dinner that I started to wonder how to get the annoying bandage off my back leg. Something the boss lady was less than thrilled to discover when she came to check on me before she went to bed. Apparently having got the bandage down to my hoof and then doing a passable impression of a Paso Doble trying to get it off was not what she thought I should be doing. One phone call later and I heard sounds of a car engine followed by the dulcet tones of mother the mutterer arriving. She was not amused.

Continued below…

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One bandage change later (which involved a LOT of duct tape) and I was once more left with my equine friends who seemed rather ungrateful for the Friday evening entertainment. They equally were not sympathetic enough to my awful day.

Luckily the bandage came off on Saturday night which at least saved mum having to prise herself away from the bucket of prosecco she was by all accounts trying to drown herself in. She’s SUCH a drama queen…

So today I get to meet a nice lady who’s going to give me electric therapy which I’m pretty sure has GOT to turn me into mighty Hovis. I at least, remain ever hopeful of this.

Laters,

Hovis