Dear diary,

Someone rescue me! And I mean now! What with my nutcase mother, slave driver Aunty Becky and my high maintenance “girlfriend”, life is pretty tough round these parts.

I’m starting to think I’ve been wrong all these years and maybe I should settle for the company of like minded males where we can go to the hay barn and discuss lunatic women. And find a new mother…

As I mentioned last week, mother decided on Friday that she and Aunty Becky would take me out for a hack to show Aunty Becky some of the alternative hacking routes that she doesn’t know about. All was fine with this plan.

Until it became clear that mother was going to ride her bike and effectively act as my two-legged/two-wheeled wing woman. Really? Like she was going to be any help at all in an emergency?

The woman fell off within 10m of the mounting block. I might have had a small amount of fun blowing myself up like a balloon so Aunty Becky couldn’t do my girth up until a stern look from mother released my breath faster than a pricked balloon.

We set off in the blazing sunshine (did I mention it was 50 degrees?) with mother wobbling away next to me trying to look like Bradley Wiggins and looking more like Bradley Walsh after one too many shandies.

We hit the first challenge 100m down the road when we had to go past the lair of the tractors of terror. There was also a bin lorry coming so I immediately took evasive action, turned round, nearly flattened mother and beat a hasty retreat. Aunty Becky, however, was waiting for this and swiftly yanked me round so my forward momentum resulted in a 360 spin back the way I had just come. Blast that girl’s reactions!

I dived into a field and turned to face my nemesis, noting with some amusement that mother was now between me and the bin lorry. I imagine faced with the sight of my mother, ample airbags heaving with exertion, the bin lorry driver was so traumatised he turned round and fled, but either way he did get out of our way pretty quickly.

We then proceeded to have a jolly trot along the verges with mother panting along next to us like an asthmatic on a treadmill. Realising that this was great sport and that watching my mother turn progressively form pale to pink to tomato red, I hurtled down the verge in a trot that some of these dressage ponces can only dream of. To such an extent Aunty Becky was heard sighing sadly “I just wish he liked dressage – he’s so good at it”. This alarming observation stunned me into slithering to a halt which Aunty Becky took to mean I was scared of the woman walking towards us in a pink top. Seriously? She had mints on her — I could smell them from a distance — so pray tell why I’d be scared of her? The lady lavished me with praise, fed me mints and looked vaguely alarmed at the colour mother had turned before we set off on our merry way. In fairness mother did keep up the whole way other than the moment she tried to get cocky and answer her phone at the same time, leading to an impromptu dismount from her metal mount into a ditch.

I didn’t laugh.

Aunty Becky did. She’s SO bad.

We had a fab time out in the sunshine apart from Aunty Becky demanding I held my own head up and trot properly. We need words about this – I know she probably only weighs the same as one of my legs but she’s young and strong so should be quite capable of holding me up.

By the time we got back Aunty Becky was smiling, I was sweating and mother was dying. I had a shower and mother slowly recovered the ability to breathe without sounding like Thomas the Tank Engine at a rave…

Due to my high maintenance girlfriend having far too much junk in her trunk (and on her back seats too to be honest) and the fact it’s been so hot, I’ve been forced to be in during the day and out at night. Mother says it’s good for me too but then she said biking was good exercise and I saw what it did to her…

Why I have to babysit Dolly the Drama queen I have no idea but then I have spent a lifetime being saddled with these divas — everyone remember fancy pants and poof bags? I’m starting to think I need to do switch to low maintenance mares — anyone know any lovely Highland types?

One final thing — a message to the dressage Clydesdale on the front cover of this week’s Horse and Hound magazine. My mother may think you’re wonderful but dude really? Dressage? Have you any idea the anguish you have caused us heavies across the land? Please tell me your dad was a thoroughbred so I can at least attempt to understand the reasons for your betrayal of your breed? Or at least tell me this is “just a phase” and you actually want to go into three-day- eventing? Please?

Laters,

Hovis