Dear diary,
I hate winter. I hate the wind and the rain, I hate the mud and the rain and I hate stressage in the rain. I hate the fact it’s too dark at night to hack or jump or do anything fun and I hate stressage. In fact cancel the winter bit – I just hate stressage.
Aunty Becky seems to have stepped up her campaign to turn me into a prancing ballerina (although with the state of the school, Swan Lake could be appropriate) and rode me three times in the week.
She reported back to mum I seemed much more supple and fluid after this and so it was clearly a good idea. I made a mental note to work on an award winning impression of being hopping lame and plotted my revenge.
We worked on my head carriage (i.e. me actually carrying my own head), suppleness (i.e. my front and back feet being in the same postcode), my transitions (i.e. when aunty Becky says “go” to actually go rather than reflecting on it for half an hour and then skipping a gear) and generally poncing like a girl.
The weekend dawned and everywhere was frozen solid so I looked forward to a weekend off. Sadly mother had different ideas and waited until late afternoon before she pounced on me in the field, removed my clothes and then made me run around the school like a slo mo from Baywatch. All I needed was a pair of red trunks and one of those float things and you would have been able to hear the faint strains of “I’m Always Here”.
To be fair the minute I tried to accelerate mum brought me back down to slow mo speed to take into account the few remaining frozen patches in the school and so it was hardly testing. It was rather nippy on ones posterior though so I was somewhat grateful when mother grew bored/froze stiff/could no longer feel her limbs so that I could get back inside and get my PJs on.
I’m a manly man but it was cold enough to freeze the balls of a brass monkey and I’m rather attached to what tackle I have left after that nasty man in Ireland removed my baby Hovis makers when I was a baby…
Mum seemed pleased with my movement and general athletics but rather less so with the hair do I created with my hairnet after she’d spent half an hour grooming me like a life-sized My Little Pony. I am not a toy, mother and I don’t need a perfectly straight mane and tail to attract the ladies — they like a bit of rough in my opinion and therefore the “quiff a la hay” is just the ticket. I think I look like an equine Fonz — mother says I look like Worzel Gummidge. Let’s face it, my mother has a style equivalent to a survivor of a shipwreck that got dressed in the dark so I really don’t think she’s rightly placed to critisise. Dolly certainly seems to like it but then she also likes luring me towards her stable for a snog before then attempting a re-enactment of the film “Face Off” minus the anaesthetic.
Mum says I’m like someone called Dory for the fact I fall for it every time. I’m assuming Dory is some manly macho Chuck Norris style action hero? Which makes sense. The little ginger dude says Dory was a forgetful dumb blue fish but then he’s ginger so what does he know?
Anyways I’m off to try to avoid the mud in my field, keep my bum firmly into the breeze and attempt to eat some grass without my mane blowing about my face like mother’s draws on a washing line — black, wispy and a danger to eyesight.
Laters,
Hovis
