Dear diary,

So it’s fair to say it’s been a week of ups and downs — quite literally — both for me and for the GB teams at that party place in Rio.

So let’s start with them. Firstly Charlotte I-actually-wish-I-could-pronounce-her-name-but-then-none-of-the-commentators-could-either and Viagra. I mean WOW. There are no words. I so want to meet the dude, never has one horse done so much…to destroy any hopes of us mortal folks not being made to ponce around arenas all over the country while our enthusiastic but ultimately delusional mothers fantasise about riding like what’s-her-face does. Seriously dude? I mean you may as well wear a tutu you prance so amazingly well but think of what it does to the rest of us? Have some heart mate — I want to jump fences not prance about like an equine Michael Flatley at a rave. You have skills — the world knows you have some serious skills — but there’s no need to ruin my life quite so effectively.

To me flat work is the bit between two jumps and that’s how it should stay. I can see Charlotte and I are going to need to have words when we meet at Your Horse is Alive. Serious words…

And what of our showjumpers? Gents, gents, in a similar vein to the eventing team when are you all going to wake up and smell the molasses? The reason you have not done as well as you hoped is simple. You are missing feather power. Any follower of that David Attenborough bloke would tell you that in order to soar you need wings. And what are wings made from? FEATHERS. Thus it is an irrefutable biological fact that you should be taking those of us posessing these vital features to the big parties and leaving these unpredictable and genetically inferior thoroughbreds and warmblood mongrels at home. Fact people. Fact.

At the weekend I proved my born capability over poles by allowing Frenchy to jump me and boy did she get a lesson in speed and aerodynamics. She loved it! I was amazing as always and everyone seemed very happy. As she led me out of the school I was a little perplexed as to why we hadn’t warmed down for long but I was to swiftly realise why. One word. Granny. She had threatened she was going to have a little go on me but I’d never taken her seriously, but she is nothing if not a woman of her word. So this pint-sized version of mother clambered aboard and mother walked us round and round the school.

Now at this point I would like to point out I’m not a ruddy seaside donkey but since it was hot and I’d just done nearly an hour of jumping I was too hot, tired and sweaty to care. She enjoyed herself and other than probably one of the most undignified dismounts I have ever witnessed all went well.

So it’s fair to say I was in the good books.

Don’t worry, it didn’t last.

The following day, mum and Aunty H were both poo picking in Dolly and I’s respective fields and were nattering over the fence. I mosied over to see what they were doing as did Dolly on her side. Now clearly she was in a mood but the next thing I know she’d bitten me over the fence. Now I’m a gentleman but there are limits, so faster than you could say “carnivorous witch” I bit her back.

Things may have escalated swiftly with both of us rearing and kicking at one another in a very equine handbags at dawn stand-off. Within seconds, Dolly had been slapped across the shoulder by her less than impressed mother with my bum receiving the same treatment from mine.

Mother walked to my gate on the opposite side of the field and beckoned her finger. Her icy “Hovis Thompson, you get your large rear end over here right this second” would have made lesser mortals wee themselves in fear, so I hung my head in a suitably ashamed manner and skulked over.

Meanwhile, Dolly had been headcollared and frog marched over to the other side of her field where it’s fair to say we were both subjected to a lengthy and often flowery tirade about how we weren’t four and how we should know better. The boss lady who had witnessed this all was in hysterics and was overheard laughing it wasn’t often that two ¾ tonne horses could be made to act like chastised naughty children with the power of voice alone.

Continued below…

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Needless to say Dolly being Dolly couldn’t leave it alone and I was discovered yesterday in the field with blood all over and some nasty cuts on my face. I’m off work (I’m not a wimp it’s just one of the cuts is right where my noseband goes), Dolly is in the sin bin and our fence line has now been double fenced on both sides. Ooopps.

So I’m off to wind her up some more, enjoy my stressage-free time and fantasise about the grovelling call the British showjumping team will be making to me shortly.

Laters,

Hovis