Dear diary

It’s fair to say, when last week I didn’t think I could get any further in trouble, I was wrong. Very, very, very wrong. In fact, at this very moment that I am writing this I suspect my mother is busy penning my “for sale” advert. Well maybe not, maybe she won’t even bother selling me — maybe she will just abandon me at the side of a road somewhere like a mouldy discarded loaf.

So what caused this further fraction in our somewhat tempestuous relationship? Well to cut a long story short: long reining.

Well, long reining and two men on dirt bikes on our land.

Long reining, two men on dirt bikes and my high-speed evacuation of the area.

Long reining, two men on dirt bikes, my high-speed evacuation across a recently ploughed field and mother’s ensuing inspection of a very, very deep puddle.

Oh and then my high-speed solo retreat back to the yard…

I think by the point mother had sprinted the length of the tracks back to the yard in her wellies, the fact I was calmly grazing on the boss lady’s lawn, probably didn’t change the level of anxiety much. It probably did help it morph into a desire to kill me but that was after she’d smothered me in kisses and checked all my legs were still attached.

With hindsight it wasn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made and perhaps I did make a very big fuss over nothing but at the time it seemed like a prudent thing to do. The fact that I’m not supposed to be doing anything above a walk and my nought to 60 take off had rivalled Lewis Hamilton on a promise was beside the point.

The fact that mother tried valiantly to hang on to me while I dragged her sideways, across a very deep stretch of puddles onto the ploughed fields, meanwhile swearing at the dirt bike riders (mother that is, not me — I’m far too well behaved to use such naughty language) was unfortunate — but she really should have learnt over the last seven years that: a) when I want to do something I can’t usually be persuaded and b) while she’s no lightweight I do weigh over three-quarters of a tonne of pure Destroyer-like muscle. Thus it was no contest who was going to win.

It was fair to say by the time mother retrieved me from the boss lady’s lawn, her anxiety was swiftly being replaced with a dire urge to kill me — so she may have taken malicious enjoyment in scrubbing the black mud, I’d plastered across myself, off with cold water. I think she was very glad I was in one piece, but only because that meant I was alive for her to be able to kill.

I have tried valiantly to cuddle, kiss, lick and goo-goo eye my way back into her good books but the coldness being shown makes Siberia look like a positive hot spot for tanning. When it comes to holding a grudge my mother is world class.

I’m hoping the filming I’m doing today (as you read this) will get me back into her good books but I don’t hold out hope. So at this time of giving and loving and all that jazz — can anyone offer a homeless Hovis a bed to lay his head?

Yours hopefully