Dear Diary

I think I’m in love. Not since my beloved Fit Mare passed away has a lady got me as hot under my bridle as this mare has — seriously she’s Foxy by name and even foxier by nature (hubba-hubba!), I shall explain more in a moment.

In other not so good news, I have decided “mental woman” illness is catching. Firstly, my mother has developed an affliction for riding out in all weathers, braving gales, thunderstorms and more rain than even that Noah bloke had to deal with. This is bad enough.  But now, my otherwise apparently normal and quite lovely sharer, has decided that hacking out alone for 3 hours is the thing to do. 3 HOURS! ALONE!  Did I mention the ALONE bit? Like sans any form of wingman? For 3 HOURS?! I actually started to wonder if she was hacking me back to my native homeland in the Emerald Isle — I swear I needed vaccinations and my passport we went that far.

I did craftily leave a trail of Hovis nuggets to follow home (not through fear I hasten to add, but a crafty commando-esqe ploy to allow me to navigate back), so I was not totally lost but still it was a close run thing. The women in my life are clearly all suffering some form of strange mental illness, which someone needs to a find a cure for pronto, before I end up with a T-towel on my head, doing those endurance race things with a load of loony Arabs.

If Aunty Becky isn’t insisting on doing an inspection of the entire Lincolnshire countryside, she’s making me practise my dressage moves. Oh yes people, that’s coming up this weekend. I’m still working on my version of the test which I published a few weeks ago and quite frankly, it’s not hard to see how much better it would be than boring poncing in circles. Mum says I’ve got to behave or Tesco’s will be having a large order of flambé Hovis on Monday morning. I didn’t know what flambé meant so I asked wise old Tom, he said it means hot and slightly alcoholic, which sounded like my idea of a good night out. But knowing my mother I’m guessing he’s being a usual dense thoroughbred and it’s not a good thing?

At least last weekend, I got to guard the rather delectable body of Foxy and have a good canter around the fields admiring her bum, sorry, I mean holding position as rear guard. She seemed to appreciate my rear-guarding a lot and the other night was actually calling to me from her stable and as Mum led me in, she pounced. Mama Mia! If it wasn’t for a mortified and slightly flustered looking mother yanking on my head collar and insisting we get a room, I might have been standing there all night whilst she licked my face off. What can I say?  She’s Irish, I’m Irish and I’m happy to be her Blarney stone any time she likes. Hubba-hubba-hubba!

This very, very public display of affection appears to have irked Dolly, who has also been most attentive of late. Finally, I have pulled something more than a muscle this year. If mother can be restrained from giving me any dodgy haircuts, making me wear anything pink or showering me in anything smelling like flowers, I really think I might be in here. Watch this space people, watch this space.

But first, before I can make any more moves, I’ve got to get through this weekend; being scrubbed within an inch of my life, wrapped in bandages, mane in rollers and told to sleep whilst levitating to avoid any possible particle of muck falling anywhere near my manly frame. Only to be hauled out of bed at some ungodly hour on Sunday and made to ponce about like Michael Flatley wearing ant-infected undercrackers. I can’t wait. Honest…

Yours dejectedly

Hovis