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Dear diary,

So, I’m back in business: my shoe is back on, I’m working once more and the next stop is Burghley baby! Well, if someone rings that is…

So last Friday night (and I do mean night — it was pitch black), Cool New Shoes Man rocked up and put my special shoe back on again. As it was blacker than the bags under mother’s eyes, CNSM took point with his trusty head torch and led mother and I back to my field. The arrival of their idol out of the darkness like an all-conquering feathered vision was clearly too much for all my fellow four-legged friends and so a multi-field mass hoolie ensued. There were feet flying in all directions and nearly as many swear words as mother womanfully tried to cling on to me in the dark while attempting to calm the stampede.

When that didn’t work she resorted to a lot of very basic Anglo-Saxon which wasn’t entirely complimentary to anyone or anything present. CNSM helpfully pointing out that I looked very sound as I piaffed past like an equine Michael Flatley was greeted with a look that would have withered lesser men on the spot — but CNSM is clearly impervious and thus lived. Which is good: decent farriers are hard to find…

We were then treated to a Chuckle Brothers style sketch while mother and CNSM attempted to put up the lane gates back up in the dark without either of them getting electrocuted. If you ever wondered about Darwin’s theory of evolution and the survival of the fittest then this display would have pretty much convinced him he’d got it very wrong…

So, by the time you read this, mother will have judged the Bransby Horses 50 words for the 50th year literacy competition. Why they asked her to judge it I have NO idea — everyone who has any form of brain cell knows that there is only once source of talent in this relationship and he doesn’t walk on two legs. Well OK he does sometimes but only on very special occasions — birthdays, Christmas and days with a “y” in them.

Anyway, I hope everyone who attended the event had fun and that they got over the disappointment of not meeting the real star.

Talking of meeting the real star, I am very pleased to announce that I will be attending the Lincolnshire County Show in June, so hopefully I’ll get to see a few of you. I’ll be there both days which, if the usual thing happens, will mean on one day I shall be cooked alive like a giant walking value burger and the next day I will be soaked as monsoon style conditions hit Lincolnshire. Mother will be in tow as will aunty Em, so do come along and say “hi”.

I’m trying to get myself an invite into the showjumping as I’m starting to think I need a back-up plan if the British Eventing team don’t pull their finger out. I’m back on the fitness campaign and I’m all ready to go — I still can’t help but think that the sheer might of feathered fire power has scared them all; and to be fair, those that have ever ridden me will tell you it’s like hanging on to a hurricane. I wonder if my new mate Jonty needs another “people’s horse”? I am Irish after all so I think it’s a really great option for him.

Continued below…

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Just one final thing that I need to set the record straight on — the other evening when myself and my lady love were both exercising in the school, I was not hiding from her or indeed being any form of wuss about being anywhere near her. That would imply that I’m am not a real man and that I’m scared of girls. This is clearly not the case. No, what was happening is I was allowing her creative freedom, space to express herself and not to feel constrained or restricted. This is because I am an all-round nice guy and is in no way due to her being a four-legged black-coated ninja…

Now I’ve cleared that up, I’m off to hide from the boss lady and mother who were heard muttering something about sheath cleaning the other day. Not happening people, just NOT happening…

Laters,
Hovis