Dear Diary

So the come down from great fame moments stinks. I mean one minute you’re on top of the world, people queuing to see you, take selfies and admire your mindlessness, and then BOOM! The next minute you’ve got some needle wielding German vet exsanguinating you all over the barn floor (whilst your supposed “protector” watches on) and then being sent to the case del pero for artistically re-arranging your rugging attire. Life stinks…

So after the show was over it’s fair to say life went back to normal. I had a day or so of she-who-must-be-obeyed being all proud mummy and then Herman arrived. With a needle the size of a baby’s arm. I kid you not I thought that the British Fencing society must have mislaid one of their weapons of choice – this was after I found out that the British Fencing society don’t actually mend fences, who knew? – It was that big.

I know getting my blood to mutate and turn me into the superhero Hoverine is a big job, but seriously did he have to shove a needle with the diameter of the channel tunnel into my neck to do it?! And that was AFTER scrubbing me so hard I wondered if he was trying to make me change colour – either that or he seriously doesn’t think a lot of the fans who cuddled me at the show if he has to use that much disinfectant to removal all traces of their grubby fingers off my manly neck…

What made it worse is as he removed the small sword – sorry needle – from my neck it spurted my costly claret all over the floor, I mean dude that stuff is precious, and I rather like it inside my body not leaking all over the place. Call me picky…

Mum showed zero sympathy for my plight, actually thanked him for harpooning me and then made arrangement for when he’s coming back to massacre my feather and inject my joint with super hero serum. There’s something wrong with a world where you humans PAY someone vast sums of money to inflict pain. Weirdos, the lot of you.

Continued below…


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Mother’s lack of sympathy was tested even further a few days later when she got a phone call from the boss lady. Who is a snitch. So to explain, the temperature had abruptly dropped and so we’d had rugs put back on. And I may, sort of, slightly damaged my best rug. The one that mother said was the only one that has ever properly fitted my substantial and muscled derriere (well to be clear she said fat ar$e but she is SO uncouth). The one that she lovingly has washed and carefully re-proofed every winter. The one made by the company that has now gone out of business and so no more of those types can be bought. Yeah THAT one.

And when I say damaged I mean totally trashed into three separate prices that no one, including all the kings’ horses, could possibly put back together again. She wasn’t pleased. No I mean she really wasn’t pleased. If you ever wanted to watch a human spontaneously combust then just lean under mother’s blonde bouffant and whisper “rugs” into her ear. Seriously.

Apparently between my masochistic self-harming tendencies and selfless desire to fund the new moat extension at Herman Towers and now my expensive wardrobe re-designing, she’s on the verge of having to sell mini-mother. Which I think is an exaggeration – I’m pretty sure she’d have to throw in the dog (well-bred but stupid) and possibly Cool New Shoes Man’s remaining kidney to make that deal work – I’ve seen the price of new rugs…

So it’s fair to say I’m in the dog house. Where I am anticipating remaining for some time.

Send carrots.

Laters,
Hovis