I have decided that maybe mini-mother is not the saint I thought she was. Clearly the evilness of she-who-must-be-obeyed has rubbed off through some sort of genetic osmosis and infected the wee small person. I thought she was my friend, the one ray of hope in my otherwise stressage blighted existence, my carrot providing pocket rocket. But no. She has betrayed me. I am hurt, shaken to my core and more importantly, wet.
Yes the love of the cold hosepipe, the scrubbing brush and the bottle of vile smelling shampoo has clearly been passed down a generation for at the weekend mini-mother wielded a brush that was nearly bigger than she is and attacked my blackened feathers with a ferocity that belies her years and, quite frankly, her height.
Now you have to remember that mini-mother was born eight weeks premature and is tiny. And I mean tiny. She’s three-years-old and barely comes past my knees; my foot is bigger than her head. But look up “feisty” in the dictionary and there’s a picture of her — she’s got mother’s attitude wrapped up into three feet of blonde cuteness and she scrubs like her life depends on it.
Needless to say 30 minutes later I was the proud owner of bedraggled but once-again-white feathers, mini-mother was soaked but triumphant and mother was clearly wondering how much she’d get if she sold us both as a bundled deal…
Mind you my pain doesn’t end there. After reading my diary last week (how does she do that — are these things not private?!) the clan matriarch aka granny has decided that if mini-mother can get on me then so can she (I wasn’t going to point out the age gap — oh no siree not me) and has announced she wants a ride when she’s next over from Spain. Do I look like a seaside donkey? I mean seriously, why don’t you all just line up and I’ll give you rides for 50p each. I am a trained, honed athlete — you don’t see Usian Bolt giving piggy backs down the 100m straight, do you?
To add insult to injury the weather has meant the school is either too boggy to do any jumping, it’s too windy or mother is not fit enough. I refute any suggestion that I’m not fit enough — the skid marks in the field allude to my home made “bleep test” training regime.
Instead I’ve been made to do boring, soul destroying stressage work in horrific weather. The other day mum was thrilled by my head carriage and forward going nature — I can assure you that was less to do with her riding and more to do with not being able to see in the driving rain and my urgent desire to get done as soon as possible and get back into the dry. She’s busy congratulating herself for her inner-dressage diva abilities and I’m prancing about trying to avoid getting sleet up orifices which will be remaining un-named.
On Sunday she decided that I needed to let off some steam (or aka her legs were aching) and I did some work on the lunge. For the sake of setting the record straight I did NOT at any point get carried away admiring myself in the mirrors and run into them. Admittedly the loud bang and my head rebounding off them may have given that impression but I was merely testing their shock absorbency. I might have got away with it (a quick glance around showed no one had noticed) if mother hadn’t fallen about in such hysterics that half of Lincolnshire could hear her. She cackles like a hyena on the nitrous oxide at the best of times so any attempts at hiding the situation were doomed.
So I’m off to nurse my injured pride, my bedraggled feathers and contemplate a stressage heavy future in between giving donkey rides.
My life sucks.