Dear diary,

It is abundantly clear from this past week that the woman upstairs has issues; proving beyond any doubt it is indeed a woman who runs the upstairs gaff.

This week we have seen sun (briefly), rain (frequently), wind (solidly) and SNOW. Lots of snow. Not the settling, Christmas card pretty type of snow though. Oh no. That would have been bearable. No this was the freezing cold, soaking wet, sideways driving, mane style ruining, bottom numbing, evil type of snow. The type that makes you have to walk in from the field sideways like a line dancing reject, just to be able to see where you’re going. The type that coats everywhere in a thin layer of sludgy slippiness, causing your mother to flail about like a drunk at a roller disco and you to have to avoid skidding into her when you rampage down the field to come in. It’s fair to say I positively hate this weather.

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The only upside was the snow flurries seemed to coincide with when mother wanted to work me so we only got as far as the school on one occasion and the stable on the other before even she had to admit it was beyond ridiculous to even attempt it. This I was perfectly ok with as Aunty Emily is continuing to work me into the ground during the week and I am tired. With a capital “T”.

Mum did spend ages brushing me and bemoaning the state of my mane (I think the half rubbed off look is very “now” as a look) while looking mournfully out at the wet, wild, snowy maelstrom. She looked even more mournful 10 minutes later when I’d finished re-styling my locks with my haynet and had apparently perfected the “gummage horse” look. I thought I looked great — which, unless I mistook tears of joy for hysterical crying, I’m pretty sure mother didn’t.

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I’m still not speaking to mini-mother after her defection to PONIES.

Apparently her first riding lesson on the pint-sized waste of grass went well but I will not be mollified. The fact that I am 10 times the size of the pony, double the height and mini-mother would need a parachute to dismount, I see in no way as barriers to why I cannot teach her to ride. Traitors, the whole lot of them.

Dolly had a horrifying thought the other day regarding what happens if they decided to buy mini mother a mini me; let’s just be very clear here, I am NOT sharing my field or my stable with some furball with little man syndrome.

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On the plus side mini-mother continues to help mum look after me at the weekend, doing my mucking out, haynets and food. This is good because mini-mother has not yet inherited full grown mother’s constant desire to diet me to the size of a thoroughbred and her dinners are usually at least twice the size of mother’s meagre rations. She also announced that while riding was fun, finding my poo in the field was the best fun. Mum looked mortified, Aunty H wet herself laughing (it’s her age I think) and mini mother beamed at me, totally ignoring the fact that she’d just dismissed the pleasure of riding a rat on steroids in favour of picking up my poo. The girl’s got her head screwed on right — which let’s face it, clearly isn’t hereditary…

So I’m off to hide from Aunty Emily, my mother and Aunty H all of who are living proof that all women are mental. Add the woman upstairs to the mix and I might hide under a haynet and never re-appear.

Laters,

Hovis