Dear Diary,
Thankfully Mother Nature appears to have got bored with “some like it hot” as a binge-watched series and has now moved on to “Baywatch” (if what you’re watching in the bay is poo fish) with a soundtrack of “Wet Wet Wet”. Honestly, I never thought anyone could be more mercurial than my mother, but by heck this female manages it – I’m not sure if we have to go back to ancient times when ritual sacrifices were made to appease her? If so I’m sure I could rustle someone, I mean something up #smallgingerponyperhaps…
To be fair here in the flatlands we haven’t had too much of the wet stuff, but the temperature has come back down to nearly bearable from gas mark Hovishotpot so at least I am now only sweating when someone says stressage as opposed to every time I inhale. Honestly someone should have made Sir Sweat-me-not come and stand in my field with a fur coat on and we would have really seen the damage dancing with penguins did to his nervous system I can tell you.
The only good news was that I got to sweat in peace after ginger whinger went to Pony Club camp with mini-mother. Something I’ve got to be honest I wasn’t best pleased about; time and time again I have pointed out the inequalities that face us big muscular feathered-types face and not being allowed to go to Pony Club camp is one of them. I mean they do jumping – I can jump; they do cross-country – no one does cross-country like me; they do games – I can bend it like whats-his-face-old-spice; and they do stressage – which ok, they can stick where Herman likes to ferret with rubber gloves in. But the point being anything that half pint half wit can do, I can do better and I was feeling massively aggrieved.
Until, that is, he came home.
I haven’t laughed so much since mother thought she could stop me carting her out of a showjumping round and to the front of the ice-cream van queue. When I was wearing a snaffle….
He got decorated.
I don’t mean like at Christmas when the evil humans cover us in tinsel and stuff, I mean full on painted like a B&Q billboard. With white paint. Across his buttocks. With the message “Get Away”.
Honestly, I laughed myself hoarse. I can also tell you he has ZERO sense of humour as I discovered when I asked if that message was because people kept touching his hot cross buns – his ginger ninja title is fair if the height he managed to get his back leg past my right ear is anything to go by.
Admittedly I was half-way through a meddle of Rumpshaker, the thong song and Bootylicious by this point so maybe he was just showing off his JLo moves like the diva he is – one can never be too sure to be honest. Either way his obvious displeasure at being used as an orange easel was evident and thus it completely made my week.
Obviously, I would still like to go to camp, but having seen the videos and stuff, I would like to put a request in for a cool musical ride like Top Gun (I feel the need for speed!) or just some sort of jumping: I don’t think there would be any need to paint me like the subtitles to a prawn film.
I’m off to enjoy the cooler temperatures, tease the pint-sized painted posterior pony and enjoy the fact the mothership is on holiday with mini-mother for the week. As a result, I won’t be able to pen a missive next week as my scribe is in the sunshine, but I will be back the week after with some very exciting news.
Laters,
Hovis
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