Dear Diary
I do not like wind. I don’t mind Billy’s flatulence (although I’m not keen on that either), I mean gale force, blow-your-mane-about-like-seaweed-doing-a-Mexican-wave WIND. I feel like a sock in a tumble dryer. My rug has spent an awful lot of time alternating between, billowing like a pair of mum’s big girl pants on a washing line and being wedged up my bottom. Every time I put my head down to graze my feathers blow up my nose. I HATE this weather. I have decided I’d prefer to be more like these mature people who live in different countries at different times of the year, right now I’d like to be somewhere warm with no wind. Any ideas?
Despite the horrific weather conditions, the cold, the rain and the wind (did I mention the wind?), mum has still insisted that I work. Even though I have no fur after my magnificent coat was unceremoniously taken off last week. Heartless she is, just heartless. Between mother making me run round in circles and ponce, Aunty Becky trying to turn me into a fairy akin to that Viagra dude, and Aunty Sammie making me go hacking on a Sunday morning when it was still DARK, I have decided all the women in my life are nuts.
Aunty Becky insists on making me work at night under the arena lights and then seems unsurprised when I’m tense. It’s not “tenseness” it’s my inner commando preparing to unleash a can of whoop ass on the dangers lurking in the shadows. You all may snigger but just because those bunnies look harmless in the daylight, don’t you be fooled — you can’t trust anything with a nose that twitches that much, it’s just plain shifty.
Then Aunt Sammie follows suit by apparently having an issue with staying in bed until a civilised hour on a weekend, and insists on going hacking at stupid o’clock in the morning. Even the local cockerel thinks her and Aunt Sarah are mental — less cock-a-doodle-do and more just plain cuckoo. At least I get to perve at an equally sleep deprived Foxy.
That said I was less than thrilled to hear of a photo appearing on my Facebook pages of the two of us and have people saying she’s gorgeous (true), I’m punching above my weight (so not true — do you know what I weigh?) and she’s bigger than me so do I stand on a mounting block? (not true and very rude). It was merely the angle of the photo I’ll have you know. Mind you, we both did have a giggle and nearly get our own back, both us nearly putting Aunt Sam and Aunt Sarah respectively out of the side door. Smirk? Much? Us? Never!
Even mum smiled and said I’d done well to get Aunt Sam aka “sticky bum” to move in the saddle. Sadly this good humour didn’t extend to me coming in rather hurriedly that evening, dragging mother in my wake. I fantasised I was doing a trot up at Burghley, mother saw it more as trying to hold onto a “rampaging bull elephant with no brakes and little between its ears”. The fact I might have accidentally shoulder barged her into a particularly deep puddle, which led in turn to the exciting discovery that her welly had a hole in it, may not have helped. I personally think she should thank me — at least dad might now get the hint and buy her something useful for Christmas this year (although in my opinion the spanner set was extremely useful — not that mum quite saw it that way).
Anyway, I’m off to try to canoodle with Dolly (aka allow her to use me as a wind break), not eat my own feathers as they blow up my nose, and try to listen to the plans of the underground rabbit resistance.
Laters
Hovis
