Dear Diary

It’s been a funny old week of ups and downs, highs and lows.

Because mum always tells me to look on the bright side, I’ll start with the highs: I’M GOING TO ‘YOUR HORSE IS ALIVE!’ I am a little concerned that I may never escape this cult place that mum goes to most years but I have been invited and it would be rude to say no. Apparently, I am having my own area built — mother says this is to house both my bum and my ego, but I think it’s so that my adoring public can form a long line to come and see me and not get in anyone’s way.

My new book will be out by then so I will do hoof-ographs and allow photos, as long as they’re flattering and of my good side. Mother insists that this is from behind with a wide-angled lens but we all know and accept she’s a) a bit special and b) not funny…

Aunty Becky is very excited by this announcement and was in fact the one to break it to me. I suspect this was due to her trying to smooth the way for the HOUR of stressage she put me through after imparting the news. Wench.

It got worse the next day though because as we set off to meet up with the iron-legged pocket rocket and her undoubtedly long-suffering steed, Aunty Becky’s phone rang and she was told that Perky (or whatever his name is) had tripped over his own feet on route to see us (no doubt thoroughly overexcited at the thought of meeting someone so fabulous, oh and Aunty Becky) and had cut his leg open.

Needless to say he was turning round and heading home. I looked back at Aunty Becky assuming we’d do the same, but no. Aunty Becky clearly went to the same school of idiocy my mother graduated from because she decided we were still going to go out.


Sans wingman.

With me in a snaffle.

So to be fair it was hardly my fault that the afternoon became a tad eventful was it? When one is alone you have to be very careful — stranger danger is very important and that skip was very strange. As was the bus.

And the tractor.

And the bike.

And the school kids.

Oh and the flowers.

And possibly the clouds.

Needless to say by the time we arrived back at the yard, I was drenched in sweat and to be fair we had only trotted for about 500m. She did give me a nice shower whilst telling mother (who had just arrived home) that I was a fairy. I did try to tread on her toes but missed, and she had polos so I forgave her (at least until the next time).

So that was the fun and excitement of the week but it was also tinged with sadness.

Our dear friend and yard patriarch Wise Old Tom has passed over the bridge. He was 24 years old and his wonderful mum decided it was time to let him be free. As always when I lose a friend I write a little poem so this one is for you Tom:

Goodnight Mister Tom
One last time, close your aged eyes
For in this sleep, you’re forever young
Galloping free across the skies

All of us, we will remember
And think of you each and every day
For when we hear words of wisdom
We’ll think “that’s what Tom would say”

And although we’ll miss you, our aged friend
We’ll try our very hardest not to be sad
And in our hearts be so very thankful
For the amazing inning that you had

Even at the end your mum so loved you
So more than you could ever know
Because despite her sadness, she released you
And with all her love, let you go

So enjoy the heavenly grasslands
With all the horses who’ve ever died
And know one day in the future
We’ll all graze there, side by side

In loving memory of Tom.