Hovis’ Friday diary: a dose of ‘the white stuff’

  • Dear Diary

    Well you’ll be pleased to know that this week finds me almost recovered from my horrendous bout of man flu, almost back to my usual magnificent manliness, fearsome featheriness and raring to go (unless the “going” involves stressage then I might still be at deaths door). I would like to say this was due to the tender loving care lavished upon me by my loving, sympathetic and adoring mother but since I’ve written this diary for many years now, you’d know I was lying…

    After Herman the German needle man had been last week and issued mother with a great big pot of white powder (which I have to say has given me wings), several needles and some dubious looking pots of liquid I wasn’t happy. My mother is in no way qualified to be sticking needles anywhere near me, let alone my manly behind or anywhere on my neck (rather too close to my nose for comfort).

    I was also passed fit enough to do some steady work. Alas mother’s idea of steady work was a lesson with the ginger flytrap’s mother, in which the “focus would be on mother’s position and not what I was doing”. Aka I had to suffer mother bouncing about all over the place like a jumping bean on top of a tumble dryer, whilst she was yelled at about “thumbs, heels, look up, elbows” — it was like listening to a masochist version of “heads, shoulders, knees and toes”.

    After nearly a week on the white stuff, that mother had jokingly referred to as my “marching powder”, I have to say I was feeling rather up for it and was getting bored with poncing about, so I might, sort of, have decided that half way through mother’s no-stirrups-and-the-loosest-rein-ever-known-to-man-to-improve-her-balance session that going from walk to canter was amusing. Sadly for me, mother didn’t end up in a heap on the arena floor but the extensive questioning of my parentage, did give me the smallest hint that she didn’t share in my sniggering amusement.

    Her lack of humour extended further when ginger flytrap’s mother put a pole down on the floor for me to walk over and I maybe, sort of, might have carted mum from one end of the school to the other in sheer excitement of the brief illusion we might be doing some jumping… Oops. I blame the drugs myself. Last heard muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “ill my arse”, mother limped off and the next day was seen to be sporting a seriously impressive set of bruises on her inner thighs.

    On that subject, I must apologise to my Facebook followers for her ill-advised posting of the pictures of her bruised inner thighs. I am SO sorry — if you need the number of a good therapist I can oblige, burned retinas however are not my field…

    Revenge however was imminent, although in fairness it was completely unintended, and did give the unexpected side effect of an extremely guilty, mortified mother actually fussing me all weekend. Do you remember how I mentioned the needles? And my concerns that mother shouldn’t be near a knitting needle let alone one that was going to get poked into my flesh? Famous last words…

    In fairness she has done it before and I might have been partially responsible, in so far as, I might have sneezed just as she was putting the needle in (I did NOT flinch like a complete girl as might have been reported by old Tom — note he is a thoroughbred and not to be trusted). As a result mother didn’t get the needle exactly where she aimed it, and I ended up with a lump on my neck for a day-and-a-half. It didn’t hurt and a guilty laden mother is — one that brings LOTS of carrots and makes me do absolutely no work at all for two days, whilst she whispers garbled apologies into the side of my neck, which wasn’t growing a second head out of it.

    Herman the German needle man assured her all was fine and I was in no danger of my head falling off, which I felt could have been a wild diagnosis on his behalf. After all, my head might have become disengaged from my shoulders and, as such, the medicinal properties of apples should have been discussed at length.

    Needless to say as the lump vanished so did this emotionally scarred, guilty version of my mother and witch fink from hell was back. I think I liked looking like a reject from the sadly unmade sequel to the hunchback of Notre Dame — the hunchneck of Norton Disney — if it meant food, cuddles and no stressage.

    However, I did overhear Aunty Becky mentioning something about taking me for a play over some jumps now I was clearly recovered, so I will hold back on my cunning plan to get Billy to use a blow pipe to aim needles at my neck for at least the next week.




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