Dear diary,

Well the good news is that the wounds inflicted upon my handsome visage by that hormonal she-witch are healing. The bad news is that means that mother has deemed me fit enough to start work after she “experimented” at the weekend; by “experimented” I mean put my bridle on with the nose band done up loosely and put me into the school to do some light lungeing.

The main problem being the words “light” and “lungeing” don’t usually feature together in my vocabulary so what actually ensued was five minutes of me behaving like some sort of well trained stressage mount while Frenchie looked on admiringly at mother’s horsemanship, and then 15 minutes of me behaving like a bucking bronco with mother hanging on with the tenacity of a teenager clinging onto members of Wrong Direction’s coat tails. She was nearly as hysterical too.

I endured 15 minutes of my ancestry being questioned in language that I’m hoping Frenchie doesn’t repeat at any stage of her English classes for fear of her being deported, before both of us ran out of steam. I was dripping with sweat, mother had exhausted her repertoire of stinging put-downs and so like two prized fighters we faced off in the centre of the ring, eye-balling each other with a fiery determination to gain dominance. But who are we kidding right? We all know who’s really the boss in the relationship, so comfortable in this knowledge I dropped my head, chewed my lip thoughtfully and sidled up to mum, breathing down her cheek as I nuzzled up to her. Mum left the arena content that in her head she was 1:0 up. I left the arena content in the knowledge that my melting brown eyes trick can get me out of any tight spot…

So after a swift, cold shower, a check of my healing wounds and a spritz of fly spray I was put back into my field where she-witch had stood shouting for me for the entire time I was away. One day I will understand women: So the other week she tried to do a Nicolas Cage and rip my face off and now she wants to play Romeo and Juliet? There is now so many layers of fencing between her and everyone else (boss lady is very much a “once bitten twice shy type” on this sort of thing) she looks like she’s in a stockade which could almost make one feel sorry for her. Almost. Until I catch a glimpse of my scarred face in the stressage mirrors and then I’m not in such a forgiving mood.

Talking of moods I don’t think mother was in a good one on Saturday night. She’d arrived at the yard to find it bucketing down with rain and she-witch and smaller ginger dude already in the barn. Assuming I think that ginger fire breathing dude was staying out in the rain (and thus was in need of a body guard/ hoof holder/ therapist) she’d dashed up to the field to feed me and then dashed back. Now to be clear when I say “dashed” it’s like watching a fat dachshund – all short legs and attitude but no athletic ability at all. Despite my bedraggled state it did amuse me to watch her attempt to “run” fast enough to prevent being turned into a drowned rat – it was never going to happen. It certainly wasn’t after she arrived back at the barn to be told that they were worried about ginger fire-breathing dude’s ability to cope outside in such monsoon like conditions so they’d like to bring us both in. I’m pretty sure mum didn’t use any rude words and she did appear to the untrained eye to be outwardly very calm but those who know her well would have taken one look at her eyes and smelt the fresh soil of freshly dug graves…

Continued below…

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So back she trotted – now resembling a poodle after an unfortunate altercation with a rogue wave – and collected me. Now to add to her wet-through-to-her-underwear woes ginger fire-breathing dude was having some sort of cat like melt down about being wet so was clearly two steps away from spontaneously combusting thus meaning that the only sane equine on the yard (and for absence of doubt that is me) had to be on gate duty, undoing and redoing the electric fence gates. Now this isn’t an issue but when it’s bucketing down and my stride is longer than the other guys meaning we had to stand and wait then it’s fair to say mum was not wearing a dry stitch of clothing. I could hear her teeth grinding from the other end of my lead rope. The highly bred ginger ones parents did look thoroughly and absolutely apologetic; which is more than can be said for his royal snortiness. Later in the twilight of the barn I did try to educate him about upsetting my mother, I fear however that the grasshopper has not learnt from the sensei. I fear for his safety I really do…

So I’m off to await Herman the German Needle Man’s more attractive side-kick to come and stick needles in me (yearly jabs people – nothing serious) and await news of a possible new lady in my life. More news on that next week…

Laters,

Hovis