Dear diary,
Once again, my apologies for my lack of missive last week, but yet again my mother was sunning herself in some place called Santa-has-a-greenie which a) sounds horrible and b) meant I couldn’t entertain you all with my wit and wisdom as she won’t let me have my own laptop and is too tight to pay for a secretary.
Not content with just holidaying in snotsville, mother returned full of joie de vie and insistent that both myself and Barbie Boy should work. Now, bearing in mind that while she’s been away, we had been once again buffeted by Mother Nature enjoying her watercolour period, frankly work has been consisting of less flat work and more splash work. This didn’t deter an annoyingly focused mothership and her miniature self from working Barbie Boy for an hour in the rain the other day. Something which normally I would have found highly amusing, as being the princess he is, he throws a strop equivalent to Mariah Carey on a bad day every time a raindrop so much as touches his posterior. However I was finding it less amusing when watching said meltdown from my field where I was also stood getting absolutely soaked. Mother resolutely ignored my yelled suggestions that she might have forgotten something, thus leaving me no choice but to express myself through the medium of modern dance, which has in turn caused divots big enough to hide bodies in, in my poor over-saturated field surface.
It was very debatable which one of us was more boot-faced as we came in, but I can assure you amused I was not.
It was another emotion that I faced this week upon hearing of the sad passing of Nip Tuck, my mate Carl’s 19-year-old stressage horse. I met the dude several years ago when we were at the cult event Your Horse is Alive and I was asked to help soothe his shattered nerves on the Friday night before the event. This was not, as many might have suspected, because he’d been introduced to my mother, but more because there’s usually a great big firework display at the rugby club near the venue. As I am used to mother going off like a rocket at the touch of a hat, I am immune to fear of the brightly coloured exploding things, but Barney was obviously used to a more refined and less temperamental ownership and thus found the whole thing rather stressful. I was therefore dispatched to keep him company and ideally calm – something mother was reportedly not for most of the night after wetting herself that I ate him or something equally far-fetched. Anyways, he spent the night with me giving him some great coaching and after then went on to win quite a lot with Carl, which I totally attribute to my influence. I was therefore very, very sad to hear of his movement over the rainbow bridge and would like to send all his family and friends my love and best wishes at this sad time.
Finally though, to end on a lighter note, and talking of the cult event Your Horse is Alive, I have news. They of course have been announcing a stellar line up of Oliver Village-finish, Geoff, Esme etc. etc, but they do always like to save the best until last. So, yes, drumroll, I have been asked to go again to add class and star quality to the event. I look forward as always to meeting as many of you as possible, raising lots of money for the charity Bransby Horses (all of my merch and books make great stocking fillers) and probably getting up to some shenanigans along the way. Please come along and see me and the team (sadly including mother) and enjoy an awesome day out.
Laters,
Hovis
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