Dear diary,

It’s official! I am a lean mean fighting machine; keen of vision, rapier sharp of brain and sound of leg. Mother is sadly none of the above and if left to Herman the German Needle Man’s devices, she would have been immediately euthanised on the spot — elderly, lame mare with limited breeding potential and a propensity to bite when irritated is not a creature that’s going to do anything than find herself in a meat market. Herman felt it would be a kindness to end her suffering, but being the charitable type I am, I intervened — not due to any over emotional facts but more the fact she does pay my livery bills and I don’t fancy sleeping outside. Practical that’s me…

Anyway, after a walk and then trot up, that would have shamed the starting line up at Burghley, on Friday afternoon (well if the starting line-up enjoying dragging their semi-lame mothers in their wake like a poor man’s imitation of Haley’s comet), Herman has declared me fit enough to commence trotting and then indeed eventually canter work. Now bearing in mind that a year ago she-who-must-be-obeyed was told we might have to put me to sleep and the best she could probably hope for is for me to be a field ornament, then I think she was allowed a bit of a snivel. Only a little one, mind you. And only because it was her birthday. I is generous like that…

So in the wake if this news, it came as no surprise to see dad again at the weekend, continuing his temporary break from retirement to stand in for mother due to her ongoing whinging about her badly damaged back. Now dad hasn’t ridden for over six years, I’ve not been worked properly in almost a year so a bit of high jinks is to be expected. When mother had explained this to Herman he’d told her to throw me on the lunge and just “let me do whatever I wanted”. This had happened on the Saturday. It’s fair to say that the icy relations caused by the aforementioned lungeing had not melted by Sunday. I fail to see that accelerating immediately into trot then canter and refusing to come down from this speed for 10 minutes despite mother’s persistent use of the word “whoa” interjected with escalating threats of violence, is in any way my fault. Herman said I could do what I wanted. I know this. I heard him. And there’s nothing wrong with my ears. Apart from when mother says “whoa” obviously, but I put that down to a frequency issue; she says it so frequently I just ignore it…

So anyway dad tacked me up and rode me on Sunday while mother glared at me in a way which may have looked to the uneducated as if she was mentally counting every penny she’s spent on me in the past 12 months and doing some re-evaluation on whether she now deemed it worthwhile. I’m not expert on women but I am pretty safe in my bet that the answer on Sunday was a resounding “no”.

Continued below…



Aunty Emily didn’t agree on Monday morning when she fetched me out of my stable at such an early hour it was still DARK. I behaved despite there being massive shadows which I can now actually see and a lot of things moving outside the halo of light thrown by the arena spotlights. Aunty Em and I remained a united front (i.e. her on top and me actually in the school) and she reported back to mum I’d been wonderful. I’m pretty sure I could hear mum’s snort of indignation from Scotland but it might have been Dolly passing wind in the next field.

I’ve been worked every other day all week, remaining focussed on my master plan which I shall tell you more about in coming weeks. And yes I am a tease. And no I don’t care.

Look out world – The Destroyer is back!

Laters,
Hovis