It’s day “who-cares-anymore-just-make-them-all-go-back-to-working-anywhere-but-home” of the human strangles epidemic and there is a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. My fear, of course, is that light being a steel dragon (you must remember I have a mother with the survival instincts of a depressed lemming so I have been up close and personal with so called “trains” on many an occasion) or even worse a gaggle of MAMILs heading towards us with headtorches. But let’s remain like a Duracell and be positive.
In other news, I continue with Herman the German Needle Man’s instructions of walking for 10 minutes. although I am now more bored than a bored thing from Boredsville. As the Boss lady, Aunty Em and the blubbership can attest to, I am now striding out like Naomi Campbell down a catwalk after being paid the £1m it took to get her out of bed; I am a vision of feather wafting, long striding, attitude exuding, magnificence. In fact the only thing I think stopping me being the poster child for how to do a trot up at a major international event is the red faced, foul mouthed fur ball I drag in my wake like debris behind Haley’s comet. Oh, and the fact I’m not actually allowed to trot – but that’s just a minor detail…
As you read this Cool New Shoes Man is coming to replace the hand-made aluminium Jimmy Choo Choo Shoos with another set, which takes me one step closer to my next assessment with Herman (he wanted two shoeing cycles before having another look), and mother one step closer to bankruptcy. I like aluminium shoes as they make my feet so light I feel like I could fly – which I have taken to demonstrating at will when being fetched in from the field much to mother’s absolute delight. The tears in her eyes after my last Beyonce-inspired head shake, turn, flick and jazz hooves was heart-warming – her protests that I’d smacked her on the nose mid-sashay were only to cover up her embarrassment over being so moved by my interpretive dance. Honestly she’s more full of poop than the muck trailer at times.
As Aunty Em’s arm has been sore since her vaccinations against strangles, her dearly beloved other half has taken to helping her. Apparently, it goes limp, floppy and useless (the arm that is, not her other half) so I’ve been having some mano-y-mano time with another male, which frankly has been very enjoyable. That and the fact he hasn’t got a clue what I’m supposed to be doing so I don’t get nagged at for making him carry my head, swapping sides more often than Nigel Farage when walking in-hand or breaking into a light jog, which to me doesn’t break the “no trotting” rule but seems to cause Aunty Em and the mothership to screech like an electrocuted meerkat. I’m seriously considering asking for his help to stage a coup and have him replace Aunty Em and Mother as both sharer and “owner” – although to be fair I’m not sure he’d be quite so keen on the funding of my philanthropic fund for Herman’s children’s education, but perhaps we can let mother retain that position as a sign of goodwill?
Talking of philanthropy I will also use this opportunity to remind you all that Bransby Horses, the charity that all the money from my literary works of genius (all seven of them peoples) goes to, are now open again for visitors. Based up here in Lincolnshire, they have carried on through the pandemic caring for all the horses, ponies and donkeys in their care without the money that visitors bring in. I have, of course, done my bit by releasing my book number seven – Hovis’ Friday Diary: Parties, Piaffes and Pandemics (if you haven’t bought it yet, then what have you been doing during lockdown? Or on second thoughts, do I even want to know…?) but they need every bit of support they can get. It’s free to get in and there are lots of lovely things to do and horses to see – although clearly none as lovely as me. So, if you’re looking for something good to go and do, then visiting them ticks boxes on every level.
I’m off to work on my next routine to show Cool New Shoes Man – I’m thinking “Here comes the Hot Stepper” needs to be the soundtrack.