Dear diary,
So news is now out about my forthcoming appearance at the Lincolnshire County Show, with ticket sales soaring and high class showjumping mares now frantically trying to persuade their parents that despite not wanting to go over a trotting pole last weekend, they are now ready for the 1.20m class at a county level show — just so that they can come and see such a hunk of horse as myself.
It’s understandable — I sometimes stand in awe in the school watching a mirage of moving, manly, muscled magnificence before I realise I’m watching my reflection in the stressage mirrors. It’s hard for me handling all this manliness so I can only imagine the inner turmoil I induce in mares of all ages and sizes. I might not have my baby Hovis maker’s ladies but I’m a big hunk of wholemeal Hovis — I’ve no idea what that means but it sounds good. Hubba, hubba.
I am however, despite the bravado, frankly worried.
The source of this worry is unsurprisingly mother.
And Herman the German needle man.
And the boss lady.
Who all seem hell bent on ruining the essence of my pulling power, the very core of my being and quite frankly the only thing that stops me looking like a fat dude with bandy legs. Yes — my feather.
What with Herman and his troop of terrible trimmers hell bent on creating topiary on my back leg which is nothing short of a homage to Dwayne Dibbly, and mother and the boss lady cutting back the feather on the back of my front knee so fiercely I look like a 70’s reject with the biggest flares in history. Oh AND the other two legs being left to their own devices so now resembling the doctor from Back to the Future, I look like a cut and shut job. With emphasis on the cut.
I can’t go to a county level show where I will be on display to the equestrian elite as well as my adoring public looking like this. Seriously, if I do the only thing I’m going to pull will be a muscle. Any mare of any sense will stare into my big, brown, melting eyes and feel herself drowning. She will gaze over my manly frame in awe and then look down at my legs and wee herself laughing…
And before any of you bright sparks suggest mother should do the kind thing and simply clip ALL my feather off all my legs then please see comment above. Seriously no feather makes me look like a fat dude with little bandy knock-kneed legs and girlie ankles. It’s NOT attractive.
All this is before I even begin to talk about the case of the missing mane. Merely looking at my mane makes mother well up and I although I will admit to having the emotional awareness of a bucket of cement, even I’m pretty sure it’s not happiness making her weep. I’m therefore wondering whether I go to the event in some sort of disguise. Like Bat horse? A set of all-round black boots, cape and mask to hide all the damage and I will go from comedy clipped Clydesdale to super-cool super horse in one swift move?
Continued below…
Hovis’ Friday Diary: welcome to my millionaire’s garden
This week the Destroyer has some confessions that
As I’m not yet cleared for ridden work this does mean I am free to stalk about my stand looking mean and moody with maybe a few super-cool high kick martial arts moves thrown in for good measure (when mother has gone to the loo obviously, as she’d only get upset — but with her bladder issues that does give me a lot of time options)? What do you think? A good plan? A plan so cunning a fox would be jealous?
Let me know your thoughts and then let’s figure out where Batman’s tailor lives.
Laters,
Hovis
