Dear diary,
So, thank you for your words of wisdom last week — many of you wrote to me and told me not to lose hope, that one day my talent would be recognised and that the British eventing team would get over their fear or their featherism (or indeed their fear of the feather), and welcome me with open arms.
Thank you for your support — it means a lot. Especially when I am stuck with a mother who is about as supportive as an aged second-hand sports bra found lurking in the bottom of the school lost property basket.
She was on a mission this weekend to try and get the “fizz” out of me. Now admittedly I do share several characteristics with fine champagne — I am appreciated only by the discerning, am fruity with extra zing and clearly (in mother’s mind) can cause a hell of a headache — but I really do take umbrage to this desire of hers to tame my natural exuberance. I am like Zebedee — I’m supposed to have more bounce per ounce than Tigger on Columbian marching powder. If she wanted slow, steady and boring she should have bought a knackered old carthorse… ah ok… well swiftly moving on…
So, it’s fair to say she spent all weekend trying to tame the beast.
To be fair she would have been better spending the weekend trying to pick up every piece of hay in the barn using chopsticks: she’d have had more luck. Look I am a force of nature, a Hovis-sized hurricane, a feathered fury, a muscled mass of manliness — and even a long way from fighting fit I’m strong, faster and fitter than she is. The one thing I can’t take away from her is she’s dogmatic.
She started the weekend with a plan; but as Mike Tyson once said, “everyone has a plan, until you get smacked in the face”. Well in this case it was less smacked in the face and more spun around like a weather vane in a typhoon as I decided walking around on the lunge was boring, executed a walk to gallop which would have made Frankel look like a sea side donkey with an acceleration of a tortoise with arthritis, and dragged mother halfway across the school. That will teach her to lunge me in a headcollar: seriously that’s like trying to catch Moby Dick using a garden cane and a piece of string.
I do sometimes wonder what goes through that woman’s head — admittedly in this case it was nearly my rear right hoof as I gaily kicked up my heels at a height only seen in Las Vegas shows and pole dancing bars (and on that note, why do Polish people get their own dancing bars and the rest of us have to mingle? Always wondered…).
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Anyway after 30 minutes of trying to bring me back to a sensible (in her mind) speed using every trick in her rather limited repertoire — “whoa”, “steady boy” and then a series of threats punctuated by increasingly flowery language — I was dragged back into the barn, thrust under a cold hosepipe and turfed back into my field to “contemplate life”. Which I did. I contemplated life as a heavy weight racehorse, as a polo pony and as a stunt horse. All of which I then re-enacted the following day. She was thrilled I’d taken my homework seriously and spent a lot of time discussing how my ancestry plays a huge part of my talent. At least that’s what I think she was saying — it was hard to tell with the wind rushing in my ears and her tendency to get a tad high pitched when she’s clinging on for grim death…
So, it’s fair to say, despite the mugginess of the weather, I’m feeling a definite cold front wafting from her direction and a general sense that I might not be her favourite horse in the world right now. I’m thinking of placing an advert for anyone wanting to adopt me? Even on a part-time basis? If there’s enough of you I could work some sort of time share arrangement where I move between you all on a weekly basis? What do you think? Anyone up for it?
Laters,
Hopeful Hurricane Hovis
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