Dear diary,

So I am deeply worried. Aunty Em is working me so hard I fear she either secretly wants to be riding a thoroughbred or she’s trying to get me fit for this Wobbleberry thing. Which is even more worrying because that means mum is still labouring under the illusions that she is in any way capable of getting me round a BE80 (a British Eventing competition over a height of 80cm). Let’s be clear here people, I am perfectly capable of a BE80 — just not with mother as the pilot. She shuts her eyes if we pop over a cross pole a mere six inches off the ground, so how on earth she is deluded enough to think she can cope with the meaty fences of a serious British Eventing course is beyond me. Mind you some may argue mother has been delusional for years…

So I’ve been lunged to within an inch of my life (and yes, Aunty Em did post videos of it on my Facebook page) and subjected to mother’s insistence on doing flatwork. This is all while coping with a complete lack of feather behind my left knee which, like with Samson and his hair, totally depletes my powers.

Mother is now starting to sweat about me embarrassing her with the winner of the charity auction at Your Horse is Alive. Some of you may recall a wonderful lady called Abbi paid a large amount of money for the honour of having a lesson on me at an auction in aid of the Wilberry the Wonder Pony charity set up by the inspirational Hannah Francis.

At the time mum was thrilled to be lending a hand and hoof to such an amazing cause, but is now starting to worry that I might pull some of my usual “tricks”. I refute this completely — I don’t have tricks, I may occasionally suffer from a Dory-like memory loss over certain things. Like the time I let the boss lady (who is a rather amazing rider with inner thighs which should carry a health warning) think I can’t rein back. For about six months. Only for mother to get back on board after having mini-mother and for me to reverse faster than a politician the whole way up the school. Or the time when Aunty Becky came to ride me for the first time and I pretended I couldn’t do more than three steps of canter. Only for her to take me in the stubble field next door and me to prove I could do stationary to canter at warp speed and I don’t have any brakes. Or maybe the time I convinced the vet I couldn’t put my hoof down and for mother to be standing sobbing hysterically. One mention of a one way trip to the afterlife and suddenly I remembered I was indeed fine and made a frankly miraculous recovery of the kind that would have made those who weren’t believers in the almighty overnight converts.

Those kinds of memory losses. It’s an easy mistake to make. Honest.

Continued below…

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So I’m currently hiding in my field praying this keep fit work is coming to an end and I might actually get to do something interesting some time before I hit my 25th birthday. Mother needs to start to realise this Wobbleberry challenge is looming and there’s no point in pretending she can pilot me and so start looking for a jockey capable of handling my talent. Can any willing applicants please forward me their CVs for consideration ASAP? I can promise you the ride of your life. Admittedly it might be the last ride too but heh, what a way to go!

Laters,

Hovis