Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘answers on a postcard, please’

Dear Diary,

Well I have good news and bad news. The good news is we are currently looking at when we might bring out my fourth book (as yet no working title so always happy for suggestions?).

The bad news is I might not live long enough to see it in print if mother and I don’t start seeing eye to eye on this walk only malarkey…

The thing is it’s boring; it’s not manly and as said before just not in the DNA of a Destroyer. Therefore the fact that I enjoy mixing things up a bit by throwing in some shapes half way across a diagonal, checking mother’s seat by swivelling around on a two pence piece and changing direction more swiftly than a politician on an election debate is just not my fault. Its genetics. And you can’t argue with genetics. Well mother can because she’s just special.

Still life does have its small pleasures. Dolly is now so firmly attached to me — she’s screaming before I’ve even had my head collar put on in fear I’m going to leave her for a younger, sportier number (or go into the barn without her — whichever version you wish to believe). Mother does a lot of muttering about high maintenance mares but then I suppose it takes one to know one right?

All this carrying on does mean I get five minutes eating some really good grass in the lane between the fields (mother has me on starvation rations and quite honestly how I am not the size of some 15.1hh polo pony I know not — mother says that’s genetics too but heh what does a Biochemistry degree mean she knows?). It also means I get up close and personal to Dolly’s rear end and to be honest that girl has a lot of junk in her trunk. She’s the Kim what’s-her-face of the equine world — high maintenance glossy haired brunette with a large derriere and a penchant for talented bad boys…

I also get to smooch her because as in our perfectly synchronised entry to the barn, her stable comes first so mum has to position me just right so she can get Dolly to turn around, undo her head collar and shut the door. That unfortunately means my head is exactly in line with the black widow’s mouth and as yet has resulted in savaging: 0 snogging: LOTS.

It is like playing Russian roulette with a hormonal garbage macerator with teeth but heh I like walking on the dangerous side of life. Not quite what mother suggested when the word “wimp” along with unjustifiable slurs on my ancestry could be heard across the Lincolnshire countryside after I had taken evasive manoeuvres due to a cunningly hidden platoon of yellow perils the other day. The dirty little swines were in a dip and I nearly stood on them.

Needless to say my lightening reflexes, athletic gymnastics and almost Las Vegas worthy trick of gravity defying levitation did save the day. I’m pretty sure mother hanging off the side of my neck with one hand on my left ear was some weird attempt at affection but a pat would have been just as good a thank you for saving her life once again. Honestly, I have lost count of the times I have had to save my mother from being a human example of Darwinism — the survival of the fittest concept would not include mother without me as her trusty saviour. One day she’ll thank me I’m sure…

I did have to laugh the other day as mother was recounting her version of events to the ginger-fly-trap’s mother who did ask if these evasive manoeuvres were occurring when I had my “ABS in”.

Mother’s face at the concept of hacking me out in my schooling snaffle was so funny I need inhaled the mountain of hair she’d just removed from my back. Oh and for the record any mention that I was swaying about in ecstasy like a Churchill nodding dog on a cross channel ferry are strictly not true. There was a cool tune on the radio and I was dancing. Honest.

Anyway I’m off to figure a new title for my next book. I’ve had from the beginning, the year of the Destroyer and Fifty Tastes of Hay. What next do you think? Ideas on a postcard to my minion mother please.

Laters,

Hovis

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