This week finds me much more cheerful. Firstly, although Mum and I had another falling out on Sunday, I have realised she’s not going to cut me into tiny pieces and stuff me between two pieces of bread (can you put Hovis inside Warburtons?). Well not just yet anyway.
Thanks to some kind fans and a word with the small orange one, I now know what sharing me means. Basically, I get another aunty or uncle who will ride me during the week. Mum still owns me and rides me as well, but it’s a bit like timeshare — although I am not akin to a flat in Magaluf.
So the hunt is on. Mum let one lady, who seemed nice, come to see me last week. Well, I thought she fitted the criteria quite well – only wanted to hack and didn’t force me to ponce about the school carrying my own head. In fact, she was very nice about letting me lean on her hands and generally run about how I liked. She’s coming back to hack me out, but Mum is a little concerned that she’s only petite (in fairness Mum it’s all about comparisons if you know what I’m saying?) and might struggle to hold me. I’m not bothered by this, but have come up with my own list of criteria for my potential sharer:
- Desirable for them to own shares in a vegetable shop or to have their own carrot fields.
- Essential they like mints and more vitally like to share.
- Essential they love long hacks, ideally with other owners who have mares. Enjoying hacking with other geldings is permitted as long as they’re not better looking than me. Must love lots of yeehaaa cantering and not be picky about collected boring canters.
- Desirable for them to like jumping — even better if they like cross-country jumping.
- Absolutely essential they hate stressage and any form of poncing in anything resembling a circle.
- Ability to make a good dinner and give good neck scratches would be nice, but I am prepared to provide training for any candidate who is a good match to the above criteria.
What do you think? I so hope I get some applicants as between them and Aunt Sam I can strictly limit ever having to go near a school again unless there are jumps in it. I am SO excited!
My desire to avoid the school does somewhat stem from yet another altercation with Mum over the weekend. It’s a wonder I’m not deaf from the amount of verbal bashing I have to endure. I argue I can hardly be expected to be all “up for it” when a) I hate poncing b) it’s warm at the moment and c) my evil mother is making me sleep outside all night with no duvet and survive on a rabbit-sized portion of grass a day.
It’s all entirely her fault — 45min of trying to turn all three quarters of a tonne of manliness into a poncing pastiche of that Dorritos bloke is tantamount to abject cruelty. Especially when she then prattled on about a bunch of shire horses that were allowed to race on a proper racecourse the other day. I would quite fancy a go at that (watch out damp biscuit, here comes the Destroyer) but apparently I’m the wrong breed and so not allowed to play. Can someone not organise a race for “part-bred Clydesdales with unfussy dams”?
Talking of “unfussy” I saw Cool New Shoes Man this week. He was very stressed as he’s organising some show or other and as such I think he really enjoyed our moment in the sunshine — me leaning affectionately against him, my head on his back. For all his bravado he’s quite shy about our bond as after a few minutes of cuddling he goes very red and his voice sounds a little strangled. Bless him.
So I’m off to work on my interview questions for potential sharers while savouring the three blades of grass I’ve been allowed today. Perhaps I’ll fantasise about racing down the final furlong, feathers flying in the breeze, adoring fans screaming my name and my jockey Emerald Walsh yelling triumphantly in my ear. One day eh diary? Maybe one day…