Dear diary,
What on earth is wrong with mother nature? I mean, seriously? It’s JUNE. JUNE. Like, summertime. And I’m wetter than a greased otter in a power shower. It’s wreaking absolute havoc with my mane, which is alternating between hanging limply between my ears like seaweed off storm-battered rocks or blowing about like Beyonce’s barnet in a wind machine — it’s literally all or nothing. Both looks are not helping me with the ladies and my lord, is that a problem, because for the first time in eight years, I am surrounded by more mares than geldings — I am literally in heaven (well apart from the rain, the sleeping outside and the mane issues).
Two new ladies turned up last weekend taking the tally of ladies to four and the number of geldings to three. Now that might not seem great odds, but since one of those geldings is a pint-sized podgy piebald, the other a slightly taller version of the previous and the final one is me, I’ve got to be honest and say the odds are pretty good, thanks. One of the ladies I recognised as a lady who has crossed my path before, and the other is her daughter who equally has looked up to me her entire life — literally, as I’m about a hand taller…
As part of operation lady killer, I’m now thinking of offering my services as gentleman wingman on hacks, holding their hoof past dangers such as the wicked wind turbines and irrational irrigators. The tractors of terror, I’ve got to be honest, they’re on their own with but it’s the thought that counts… At first, I was pretty sure that this act will result in them falling head over heels but then I have reflected, I’ve tried this approach with my lady love for years and all I’ve pulled is several tendons. Maybe I need a plan B? Suggestions always welcome ladies — along with your number and an invite to come and practise. And I can be very very slow on the uptake…
But anyway, back to the weather. I blame mother and the boss lady as they moved us last week to the summer fields and clearly, she-who-controls-the-taps took exception to this as, quite frankly, it has piddled down ever since. Summer fields has also meant much richer grass and thus, fatty had to have his paddock cut, strimmed and shrunk down to the size of a dad’s bald path — with about as much growth on it. He’s also still wearing his Hannibal Lector mask and can be seen glaring from behind his girly locks as the boss lady works him twice a day — honestly, I’ve never realised how much fun fat camp is when it’s not you being beasted senseless by two women waving a weigh tape. Oh, how I have laughed. What’s even funnier is the open acknowledgement that of all the horses on the yard, the one who hasn’t done any work for six months is the fittest, leanest and most handsome there (well ok, the last one is my view, but I’m not wrong…). What can I say people? Some of us are just blessed with a good metabolism and some of us aren’t *cough* mother *cough*…
The only good thing about the rain, is that it has turned the school into something only useful for aqua-aerobics, and since I do still have a sizeable hole in my foot with no filler in now, then it is deemed not safe for me to get my feet that wet. Oh! What a shame. I do not doubt however that Aunty Emily will be leaping back on board as soon as there is a break in the weather and the school drains back to a state where tidal waves are not a legitimate danger.
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Mother hasn’t been back on board yet as a) she’s broken and weeks away from her spinal surgery and b) she’s going to Kenya tomorrow so won’t be around. While I am marginally praying for some sort of hippo-related incident (and no, I don’t mean she goes to the pool for a swim), it should therefore be noted I am sans scribe for next week and thus there will be no diary. I know the stress this will cause, but blame mother not me — she’s just so selfish!
So I’m off to try and restyle my mane, dry my eyelashes and figure out my next moves with my bevvy of beauties.
Laters,
Hovis
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