Dear diary

Mother is definitely back. I’m back down to one dinner a day (I had convinced the boss lady that I was starving to death so she’d put me back on two), I have no grass, I’m being made to jog to my field every time mother puts me out and work has recommenced. And by work I mean poncing around the school while she sets her phone alarm to make sure I work for exactly the same amount of time on each rein. I feel like a boiled egg – immersed in lots of water and then timed to perfection.

Did I mention the water? The lots and lots of water? Seriously what is the dude upstairs doing? It’s JULY. I should be basking in rays, trying to turn my slightly orange hue into a dark bay tan and sunbathing side-by-side with a slightly sweaty Dolly, not having to do front crawl just to go from one side of my field to the other.

If it rains much more the boss lady could let the arena out to the local synchronised swimming team. Even mother took pity on me the other night and let me wear my rain sheet. To be honest if you all don’t know what an uncaring tough nut my mother is by now, then what have you all been reading for the past seven years?!

Cutting-edge hairdressing Hovis-style

Mind you she’s less than amused with me at the moment as it is. We’ve had a slightly disagreement regarding my tail, or rather the self hairdressing I carried out on it while she was away sunning herself. Apparently in her view I resemble something that chimney sweeps shove up fireplaces to dislodge soot; I prefer to think of it as a funky cutting-edge tail Mohican.

She was actually quite touchingly pleased to see me until she got a look at my rear view. The wailing could probably be heard three counties over. I had hoped she would have been impressed with what Nicky Clarke-inspired re-styling is possible with a stable wall, a hay net and a lot of perseverance, but as usual I was mistaken.

I have been washed, brushed and sprayed with all sorts of vile smelling chemicals all while being reminded that I am not blessed in the looks department as it is, without my backside resembling a startled hedgehog. It’s a good job I’m not of a delicate disposition, but then I’d have never survived all these years with “she-who-must-be-obeyed” if I was…

Time for boot camp

So mother’s boot camp is formally kicking off this week with a view to getting me as fit as possible ahead of Herman coming to see me to say whether I can canter now. Which is ridiculous – of course I can canter. That’s like asking a skunk if it smells, a bird if it flies, and a dog if it barks: You can’t argue with nature (ask that Darwin guy) and me cantering is a force of nature – magnificent, fantastic and unstoppable. The latter part being a constant bone of contention between mother and I, but hey we’ve never seen eye to eye about speed.

Anyway, apparently I have to be able to ponce about like that Viagra dude after a bucket full of blue smarties before mother will even consider asking Herman to come and assess me. Life is SO unfair. It means I will have nightmares about mother’s phone alarm going off while I pant around the school sweating like a fox at a hound convention for the next few weeks.

Mother is trying to indoctrinate Aunty Becky into being as equally disciplined, but that’s like trying to get mini mother to behave in a sweet shop – it’s never going to happen. Aunty Becky tries, she really does, but after five minutes of discipline she gets bored and decides that we should go out hacking instead. It’s like being schooled by Dory. And it’s GRRREEEAAAATTT!

Anyway I’m off to get my sweat bands on and start to limber up – boot camp mother is either going to kill me or kill her. It’s survival of the fittest baby and I am FIT!

Laters

Hovis