Dear diary,

I am a happy Hovis. A very happy bouncy Tigger-like Hovis with a spring in my step and joy in my heart. And who can blame me? I’m now tube-less, fully visioned in my left eye, restored to my usual handsome self and with mutated blood roaring in my veins. I have replaced the weight I lost in hospital and am full of joie de vie.

You would think this would make she-who-must-be-obeyed happy right? Her boy back bursting with energy and filled with fun? Leaping with a love for life? Admittedly said leaping has seriously jeopardised her toes on recent occasions but still that’s just a minorly irrelevant foot note. Or toe note… But no. This is mother. Never mind that it is the season of love for all men, she’s whinging that bringing me in at night is like trying to wrangle a large male bull using a coat hanger. You’d think that she would be thrilled to feel the power surging through my manly frame as I sit back on my haunches and launch through the gates like Usain Bolt at a trainer sale. That the experience of me trotting beside her would make her breathless with excitement rather than because she’s not paused for breath between expletives and indeed that my display of feather wafting would leave her tearful with joy (which to be fair I have achieved 50% of i.e. the tears not the joy bit). There is simply no pleasing this woman.

So last Friday was TRD (tube removal day) and despite mother forgetting the right time and turning up looking flustered 10 minutes late, Herman’s more glamorous assistant kindly provided sedative (for me, not mother — there’s no drugs in the world that would calm that mass of energy down), and then tube removal commenced. I was somewhat less then amused to find out when I came around from la-la land that mother had been permitted to do the deed and take everything out — seriously people she might use big words and pretend to be intelligent but some days we’re lucky if she’s remembered underwear. And let’s not get started on her leaving the yard the other night with no lights on…

Anyway the net result was I no longer have a face that would make even the bravest of mares run a mile and am without the hoofing great disc thing that had been in my eye dispensing the drugs. Honestly people, it was the size of a small UFO and I’ve had in my eye for weeks — I am such a trooper. Modest too…

I have to wear my mask for a tad longer as I’m still having drops in my eyes every morning and night and some of them are making my pupils so large that people will think I’ve been snorting the white stuff — and I don’t mean snow…

Talking of which, what’s with the white stuff falling from the sky? Really people? I have Madonna’s bra on my head and you want to send snow? I ended up looking like two snow-capped mountains every time I faced into the wind.

So in summary, I’m tube-less, feeling very, very well and am loving helping mum do a passable impression of bolero every time we transition up the slight incline from the field onto the road. Her Bambi on ice impression down the drive is award-winning with her arms wind-milling so much, I’m thinking of applying for a grant for her as a source of renewable energy — wind turbines are all the rage you know…

Continued below…

I’m seeing Herman’s less German lady next week just to make sure all is OK — I’m assuming she means with mother’s questionable sanity because I’m fine. I see the veterinary sight wizard himself in January when I’m hoping he gives me the all clear to start working again. I’m also hoping someone takes smelling salts because if he repeats his desire to do my right eye mother might need reviving.

Laters,
Hovis