Dear diary

I have had a very sad week, not as sad as some weeks of my life but a pretty sad one none the less. Billy, my main man, wingman extraordinaire and one of my best friends has moved out.  His mum has a farm with lots of land and now her little person has ponies she decided to take Billy home to live with them. I’m devastated to lose such a great dude (even though he looks like a cow) and am now having to think about training a new wingman. More on this in a moment.

Then, Dolly got injured and is out of action, Roxy is also injured and in only light action AND the little ginger dude is ill and has got to be on box rest. Everyone is dropping like flies! Because the ginger dude is not as manly as me, he doesn’t cope well on box rest so mum has agreed to let me stay with him during the day and sleep outside at night whilst the other little dude comes in to keep him company. I was not consulted on this, I have to say, and whilst I’m sure everyone thinks that my mother is a wonderful caring type, I have to point out she’s making me SLEEP OUTSIDE. OUTSIDE. With no tent or anything. She says it’s for my own good as I’m looking a tad porky at the moment.

I have pointed out that it’s not porky, its show condition but as usual my mother pays no attention.  She then went on to ruin my life further by posting pictures of me on Facebook claiming I was kissing the ginger dude. Can I just be clear, we were having a manly groom whilst I explained how I was going to stay in and hold his hoof whilst he’s ill. And that really we need to reach agreement on the radio station swiftly because another rousing rendition of S Club 7’s greatest hits might unleash my homicidal tendencies. We were NOT snogging.

This week has also seen me smugly show Aunty Becky that I am perfectly capable of working in an outline for the entire time and actually can ponce with the best of them.  I hasten to add this will be the one time in the next 12 months that I allow her to witness this.  Next time she gets on board, I shall charge about like a giraffe with a neck brace on and point blank refuse to even acknowledge the concept of “bend”.

She’s been spending far too much time with poncy warmbloods of late so I like to keep her on her toes… Mind you I did hear a whisper that she might have booked a lesson with the  little pocket-rocket again so the joke might be on me. Hopefully the iron-legged short one might fancy seeing feather power fly and might let me do some jumping?  I live in hope.

So the yard is buzzing with views on the kind of horse we hope moves into Billy’s old stable. It’s next door to mine so I feel my views should be taken into account much more than anyone else’s.  So the criteria are as follows:

1.     Ideally must be a fit attractive mare, with low morals and a soft spot for Irish bogtrotters
2.     Must not snore
3.     Must not pull my rugs off and wee on them
4.     Must be prepared to share haylage as my mother won’t let me have any
5.     Must be a good wingman/woman. To be a good wingman/woman they must have the following attributes:

a.     Accept that I am a celebrity and as such I need protecting so thus be prepared to place their bum between me and any tractors of terror
b.     Ditto the above for lorries, buses, trains and aeroplane steps (and yes that has happened)
c.     Have skills at synchronised trotting and changing formation without warning (aka when I see something I don’t like and switch to the other side of them)
d.     Must not sulk or get over excited when I get bored of politely cantering behind them and steam past like the inner city express to Feathersville
e.     Like stubble racing and general “yeehaaa” type activities
f.      Like polos during and after a hack

If anyone feels they have these attributes and will make a good stable companion and wingman I shall be holding auditions shortly.  All applications by mail and bribery is perfectly acceptable.  Bribery material can include: carrots, treats, polos and photographic selfies in the case of mares (geldings need not send any).

I await your responses.

Laters

Hovis