Dear diary,

So the woman upstairs (and it HAS to be a woman) is just having a laugh at my large hairy expense.

Firstly the torrential non-stop rain that makes me look like a large, seal pup-eyed, soggy poodle and makes my feathers look like brown snakes making a break for freedom from my knees. Then the wind that blows my manly mane so vertical you can hear the Jaws music every time I move and a change of direction results in an almost instance black out as it then goes horizontal like a hairy mask of Zorro. Now the temperature has dropped more swiftly than mother’s IQ after childbirth and we have snow. Seriously?!

Last week we were doing synchronised swimming in the school, this week it’s Bolero on the way down to the fields. Last week watching mum come towards me was like watching the love child of the creature from the black lagoon and whatamess, this week it’s like watching Eddie the Eagle off the muck heap ramp.

We did however have a few short hours last week when the school had dried sufficiently to be used without armbands and the wind let up enough to risk using outside spaces without fear of being blown away like a large equine hot air balloon towards the heart of Europe. Or Norfolk. Which could be worse…

Needless to say mother pounced on those few hours faster than Kim Kardashian onto media coverage and had me in the school before I could blink. It’s fair to say it wasn’t the best piece of work I have ever done and mother wasn’t exactly thrilled, but I managed to avoid the worst of the puddles (and the resulting tidal wave which would have soaked mum if I ran through them) and didn’t spook too violently at a dive bombing pheasant so it was probably to be viewed as a win. Which is more than can be said for the following day. I think it’s fair to say the following day mother would have sold me to a burger van faster than you could say “fries with him?” What can I say?

It was windy, it was cold and I wanted to come in. Mother however wanted to check my soundness after working the day before after most of the Christmas period off. I wanted a swift exit into the warmth for a nuzzle with my haynet. Mother wanted a couple of slow steady trots down the drive to look at my gait. In my eyes I compromised. I trotted up the drive, about turned and cantered back to the yard. Win: Win. Admittedly I was trailing mother behind me like a helium Peppa Pig balloon behind a fat kid at sports day but that’s not the point.

She was not impressed.

So much so that the next morning everyone else went out and I was left in. Alone. Unloved.

Apparently I was actually in waiting for Cool New Shoes Man but I didn’t actually know this so I may have deliberately wee’d right near my stable door so it almost flooded the barn. Ooooppps. My bad. I think if it wasn’t for the fact I was doing a manly stubble rub with Cool New Shoes Man (we were NOT snogging) when she arrived, she might have rubbed my nose in it.

I do love Cool New Shoes Man, he’s a dude, he looks after me and he manfully copes with mother being, well…mother. For that alone the man deserves a medal. But what is with the guy wanting to take selfies of me and him with his tongue up my nose/down my throat? It’s just wrong. He then posts them on my Facebook pages and the Hovite Army ENCOURAGE him. Which just feeds the beast. There are times I despair of them all.

Anyway I am off to have words with the weather woman upstairs — it’s time her and I had a little chat.