Dear Diary

So it’s started. The round of mum “interviewing” sharers for me and dealing with the plethora of people who only want to come to see me because I’m a god-like rock star.

She did say at the weekend she was amazed at how many people seemed to think I was up for sale when the advert clearly says sharer. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty sure there are days when mum would happily sell me for £2.50 and a packet of polo mints – in fact some days I think she’d just take the polos – but whether it’s due to fear of the Hovite Army kidnapping her and them never finding her body or because she actually in some small way sort of loves me, I’m pretty sure I’m not currently up for sale.

She also asked for no out and out novices, which to be honest I took umbrage at. I like novice riders; they’ve not got a clue about any of this correct head carriage nonsense and are quite happy for me to run around with my head in the air like a giraffe with a weight problem. They also have NO idea how to stop me when I rampage across a stubble field and generally ask very little (being more concerned with not falling off).

Mum says I’m much too strong to have someone barely out of a riding school and while she utterly appreciates that everyone has to start somewhere, she doesn’t think that somewhere should be me. I did wonder how she wasn’t choking on the irony of this – when she bought me as a four-year-old fresh off the boat from Ireland she was a complete novice herself and a very very nervous rider to boot. This explains why the lady who sold me to mum didn’t tell her I was only four until AFTER she’d hacked me out. If she’d told her beforehand I wouldn’t be writing this as my life would have taken a very different course…

Anyway a lady who is a friend of Aunty Becky’s came to ride me at the weekend. Mum got on me first and despite the howling winds I calmly behaved, giving the lady the benefit of my big brown eyes and lady-killing looks; I couldn’t have worked it any harder than Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. The lady then got on me as mother proceeded to drone on about the fact I don’t rear, or buck or do anything dangerous, I’m just three-quarter of a tonne of opinionated male, yadda yadda yadda. All was going well until she asked for canter and I got so excited I did a little buck.

Ooooppps.

My bad.

To be fair I’d bet a week’s supply of hay that I barely cleared six inches of the floor, but still mother’s eyes were so murderous I swear I could smell a freshly dug grave. Luckily the lady thought it was funny. Oh for mother to have the same sense of humour…

So the lady has come back a few times to ride me some more and then to try me on the lunge. She has reported to mother that I have been an angel. I can sense mother’s disbelief emanating from the other end of the country, where she is presently residing. Apparently I might have some other people coming to try me if this lady (I’m allowing her to remain anonymous at the moment) decides she doesn’t want to be a part of my crazy, high profile life.

To be fair how do you say to someone “come and share my horse but don’t worry about what I think of your riding – it’s the 4,000 facebook followers he has that should bother you”?

For those asking last week, my facebook group can be found at We love Hovis and His Friday diaries on H&H – come and join the fun!

Anyway I’m off to go and work on my adorable, “don’t believe a word my horrible mother says about me” face and to try subtlety to stamp on the emerging yellow perils that are appearing near my field.

Laters

Hovis