Dear diary,

So I obviously wished you all a Happy Christmas and Happy New Year in my Christmas Day and New Years Day messages. For those of you too hungover to appreciate them I shall wish you the same again because I’m nice like that.

I obviously wrote both messages way before Christmas and did comment in my New Year’s Day message that I wouldn’t have had a clue what had gone on. Well I can tell you what went on. Nothing. Nada. Diddley squat. Oh other than it rained. And rained. And rained some more.

Now we didn’t have it anywhere near as bad as all you poor people and equines in Cumbria and Yorkshire (incidentally mum’s place of birth so she felt doubly sorry for all of you) so we don’t really have a lot to complain about in the grand scheme of things.

However in the smaller scheme of things our fields are mud baths. The only thing the school is good for is aqua-aerobics, you need armbands to get down the roads and mother has resembled a windswept drowned rat for the entire festive period. In other words, it was a wash out.

Us four-legged creatures grew increasingly bored (I almost contemplated a career in stressage just so I might find an excuse to ponce around a warm, dry, indoor school — I say almost but it never quite got THAT bad) and when bored we tend to make up our own games.

I have to say I have enjoyed past times such as “let’s make my white feathers black”, “can I pull a shoe off in this mud”, “how long a skid mark can I create in the grass” and my personal favourite “if you want me, you can walk into a mud patch two foot deep to get me”.

I can’t tell you how much mum enjoyed the last game — particularly when her boots sprung a leak. If you ever wondered what the River Dance looks like when carried out by a middle aged porky poodle haired pessimist then call me — I can fill you in in graphic detail. It was hilarious. Even more so when I decided that I ought to honour my Irish ancestry and join in. My high leg kicks were so amazing the American dude, who was being led past my swimming pool field at the time, leapt sideways five feet in appreciation. He then briefly attempted to teach me some line dancing moves while our respective parents slid about in the mud cursing our ancestry. Such amazing fun!

Once I had permitted mother to catch me I then pranced in all high kneed and flashy leg yields which may or may not have leg yielded mother into the hawthorn bush. We then may or may not have half passed across the car park with me providing a delicate shoulder-in movement ensuring that mother walked through all the really deep puddles.

By the time we got back to the barn and I was ensconced into my stable next to the American dude I was being sold for £1 with a no returns policy that even a boomerang couldn’t beat. It’s fair to say I wasn’t flavour of the month with she-who-must-be-obeyed.

The American dude’s mother — Aunty R — did comment that how mother even holds onto to me when I’m in “one of those moods” she didn’t know as it “must be like trying to hold onto the QE2”. I briefly enjoyed the idea that I was majestic and royal-like until the little ginger dude across the gangway pointed out she probably meant I had a large turning circle, caused a gigantic bow wave and liked being tied to buoys. I made a mental note to wee in his feed bucket and glowered at Aunty R. She seemed unfazed by this which means she’s either tougher than she looks or I need to work on my glowering. Damn my big brown melting chocolate eyes — they put me at a serious glowering disadvantage…

Anyway since I’ve had nearly two weeks off I am expecting as soon as the school resembles a school again that mother or Aunty Becky will be dragging me in there with the enthusiasm of Imelda Marcos at a shoe sale. My life sucks.

Laters,

Yours soggily,

Hovis