Dear diary,
I am in hiding. My street cred is in ruins, the only sex appeal I have is when I ask people to give generously and my self-esteem was last seen galloping into the middle distance laughing like a hyena on nitrous oxide. Yes, you’ve guessed it, mother has been channelling her inner Nicky Clarke and has given me a haircut. Well, when I say haircut, imagine she’s placed a bowl on my head and cut around it. With blunt scissors. And her eyes closed. Quite frankly I have seen topiaried bushes with a better finish than my mane.
She also attacked the long cat like hairs on my face, the tops of my legs and my bottom. Once again I have so many steps in my bum hair that it looks like the stairway to heaven. I can tell you my rein-back moves have never been so good: I’m spending my entire time walking backwards so Dolly can’t see the ridges running up my rear end.
Not content with sheering me like some sort of sheep with mental health issues she then allowed Auntie Sam to give me a bath. Aunt Sarah dug out some “wash the white bits so bright you need sunglasses” shampoo and now I look like I have fluffy white leg warmers on. Either that or I have managed to stand on four poodles simultaneously. What with the blinding white legs and the stairway leading up from them I must look like Machu Picchu rising above the clouds — I’ll have the Incas turning up at any minute claiming settlement rights. Mind you, with my fringe I look like an equine Pocahontas with a moustache so I’d probably fit right in.
Other than my hellish hairdressing experience I’ve had a good week. It’s been really sunny so I have been naked, as have the ladies. Hubba hubba. Ginger mare has had to have her Darth Vader mask on, which made me giggle until I saw mum had dug mine out too. Thankfully its started raining today ,which at least gives me a few days’ grace to attempt to either kill it or hide in a hedgerow. The tiny shred of dignity I have left is counting on my ability to make the dreaded thing disappear faster than a polo at teatime.
The hacking has been fab in the sunshine apart from the plethora of tractors of terror — do they breed in sunny weather? The ground is starting to harden up though so a bit of rain is welcome to make sure we can still have a good “Yeehaaa!” — sorry, collected CANTER — down the sides of the onion fields.
Talking of “yeehaa”, I understand there was a party again this weekend that once again my invitation went missing for? Mum tells me there was a big debate over who was going to be top dog at the party — Team Fox-in-a -Hole or Team Knickerless. As it happened, neither of them managed to win and the reason why is obvious. Wrong steeds my friends, wrong steeds. What you need to do is to think outside the box — hark at me! Can you tell my mother is a consultant? Come to think of it, both of us talk bobbins for a living but only one of us gets paid for it…
Anyway outside the box (because they don’t let us common folk IN the box) is the secret weapon needed to triumph at these big parties. Yes you’ve got it people – ME! I can assure you on my mother’s life I would take you around the cross-country in ways never witnessed before. I would execute dressage moves to make the judges weep, give you a ride the likes of which you have never experienced and make sure you are talked about for years. I think I would be a great asset to a more serious rider, I really do. Preferably one with grooms who know how to deal with a real man’s mane and a plethora of foxy mares with very loose morals. Can one of you call them and offer my services? Pretty please?
Yours longingly,
Hovis
