Dear diary,
Happy New Year one and all and welcome to the start of a new decade; I have absolutely no idea what a decade is, but I’m just hoping it’s not another name for stressage? Especially as it apparently lasts 10 years — sheesh, that’s one heck of a long test…
Anyway, I wish you all the same sort of happy, prosperous and fulfilling next decade as the mothership says I gave Herman the German Needle Man in the last one; she says that the time police rules state I have to pick a new beneficiary of my spiritual (and mother’s financial) generosity for the next decade, so I’m pondering who to choose. Mum’s keen it’s her, but Cool New Shoes Man has managed to ensnare a human unicorn (someone daft enough to actually agree to marry him), and is angling that I could be his best horse at his wedding. It sounds great, but I am a little concerned that apparently the best horse has to pay for the wedding in order to be allowed to BE the best horse; has anyone else heard of this or is this one of his twisted stories? You know like when he told me sticking his tongue up my nose was a new shoeing technique from France?
Anyway, before we talk about the future let’s just dwell on the past for a minute — or the past two weeks to be precise. Because yet again I have been betrayed and let down, this time by that big fat, judgemental man in the red suit; Father-thinks-he’s-hilarious-Christmas.
Last year I asked him to grant the mothership a slim arse and a fat bank balance and look what happened… This year I decided to cut down the asks on the miracles front and make it a bit easier for the old dude; so, this year I asked for a blonde, moral-less mare. This is not a huge ask and coincided brilliantly with the mothership and father looking for a new pony for mini-mother after they finally came to their senses about the bijou black and white bog brush and sent him back to the milking parlour. If the man has any sense, thought I, he will make my Christmas wish and mini-mother’s come true all in one beautifully formed four-legged girl pony — simples!
And for one brief, wonderful life-affirming moment the day before Christmas Eve I believed in the power of positive thoughts, good boy behaviour and the last dregs of mother’s bank balance as the barn doors opened and a slightly-ginger-but-we-could-forgive-that bodied, flaxen maned equine barbie sashayed through the door; the last dying rays of sun creating a dazzling aura of golden brilliance around her slim figure as she gazed beguilingly through her blonde fringe. Dude, morbidly obese or not, you deserve all the mince pies in the world was my first thought — well let’s be honest second thought, the first one was Hubba Hubba…
And then, like the last cake at a fat fighter’s meeting, hope was cruelly snatched away; as the golden apparition turned to enter her stable and I saw things that had no right being on my barbie girl. That’s right, my unicorn was a lot less Barbie and a lot more Ken…
I mean, what the actual elf was the fat red dude playing at? Clearly looking at the size of mother’s arse, and indeed her bank account, he struggles with the finer detail of requests, but this was simple! Girl horse. Girl pony. The important bit was not the size, nor colour, nor weight, nor breed; it was the GIRL bit! Admittedly this new guy is so pretty he’s had me pondering a while host of things, but the reality is, I wanted a girl. I haven’t been this disappointed since the post office lost my invite to Rio.
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Needless to say, the let down has stayed with me over the entire Kissmuss period and has manifested itself in various ways; mainly me expressing my upset through the medium of modern dance, which my culturally deficient mother has misinterpreted to be bad behaviour, and as such, was on my Facebook pages over Christmas suggesting that I wasn’t going to live to see the start of this decade. I pour out my woes into a post-modernist passionate piaffe, and her critique cites I look like a crab doing River Dance — I mean, can life get any worse? Mini-mother is beguiled by Barbie Boy, I’m questioning myself every time he sashays past me and I forget it’s a dude, my mother has the cultural sensitivity of someone with very little in the way of cultural sensitivity. Oh, and next week Herman and CNSM come to see if I can return to work, so the holiday is over. And for the record, on the way back from the field the other night, I attempted to set out my New Year’s revolutions but mother smacked me on the bum and told me to “stop doing *insert very very rude word* circles”, so I’m afraid there will be none of this new year, new me malarkey.
I think I preferred being partially blind — this 2020 vision is massively overrated…
Laters,
Hovis
