Dear Diary
It’s fair to say I am somewhat in the dog house. Those few days when mum was beside herself with worry about my health and so clung on to me like that Kate woman clung to that bit of wood in Titanic, are clearly in the rear view mirror. To say I blotted my copy book is like saying Mike Tyson is a closet ear nibbler — i.e a rather anorexic version of the truth…
Since Herman the German is coming again on Friday (or today as you read this — editorial deadlines and all that) and I will be back on boring box rest again, mum decided that we’d make the most of the weekend and go out for a walk-only hack as per Herman’s orders. As Dolly is also on walk-only due to her poorly leg, mum and Aunty H decided we’d go together.
Now at this junction, I’d just like to point out I’d not been worked in three weeks, it was very, VERY windy, my foot felt good and I was feeling rather full of joie de vie. So why mum was in any way surprised that I was a tad forward I know not. Admittedly, it might not have been the forward bit that bothered her — more the sideways, up and down and the high speed backwards that truly irked her — but knowing mother, who knows?!
I’d also like to point out that while she is undoubtedly an object of many of my lust-filled fantasies, as a wingwoman, Dolly is about as much use as a paper aeroplane in a downpour. I therefore feel that placing the blame — for the spooking, cantering on the spot, spinning round, reversing almost into a ditch (that Sainsbury’s lorry was clearly up to no good) and the joint leap into a potato field — solely at my large feathered feet is unfair. In these times of stress, I look to my hacking buddy to see if they agree with my threat assessment — if they don’t, I act as though I didn’t just attempt to turn myself inside out, and merrily march past the object of terror.
If however, they too are prancing about, snorting and generally signalling that the carrier bag/ sign /skip/blade of grass is indeed an enemy of the equine state, then I feel totally justified in spinning around and leading the charge to freedom. Mother sadly doesn’t see it this way and it appears she has a kindred spirit in Aunty H. To say there was much liberal application of the schooling whip teamed with more Pony Club kicking than in a Thelwell masterpiece would be putting it mildly.
I just hope that members of the Pony Club don’t use the language that was pouring forth — I hang onto the hope that there are nice lady-like individuals out there somewhere and it’s just my mother that can spout language sufficient to make a builder blush. Mind you Aunty H is pretty fluent in basic Anglo-Saxon too it has to be said…
Suffice to say when we finally got back to the yard mother’s mood was blacker than the storm clouds overhead and it was noticed my dinner was a little on the small side (for “small” read — wouldn’t have kept a mouse on hunger strike alive). She did snarl something about having another go in the morning but I ignored her while staring hopefully at my dinner praying the lack of volume was a mere optical illusion. Sadly I can report it wasn’t…
So the next morning, not only did mother turn up before the man upstairs had fully turned up the dimmer switch but she then insisted we go out BEFORE breakfast. I knew she was a tad irked but such blatant cruelty was surely unjustified? It’s fair to say I tried very hard to behave (not to please mother but more in the eternal hope breakfast might be a little more substantial) but the building skip was a step too far. I insist I was trying to be a gentleman by allowing Dolly to go first — the fact she slammed the brakes on and point blank refused to go past is not my fault. I just decided I’d best stay and bodyguard her and not leave her to face the skip alone. I call it chivalry — sadly mother and Aunty H didn’t share my view. Needless to say, we did in the end go past it and any reports of me doing more spins in the road than Michael Flatley on a waltzer are greatly exaggerated…
So Herman is due today (as you read this) so I shall be once again facing large needles, a very worried-looking mother and an anxious Hovite army of Facebook followers. I’m more worried that I end up doped out of my tree and waking up to find another purple leg and a holey set of feathers — and I don’t mean the religious type…
Laters
Hovis
(Concerned of Lincolnshire)
