Well it’s fair to say that it’s been a week of highs and lows; the high of book number three being launched and the low of being subjected to abject cruelty by mother and Herman the German needle man. I shall tell you more…
So last Friday, I told you I was having one of these nerve block things which may or may not result in my feathers been shaved off. Well the reality was much worse. The reality was two small patches of my feathers being shaved off so I now look like I have mange. This was after being made to run up and down the drive so much, mother nearly needed an ambulance (and whilst we’re on the subject, there’s NO way she’d pass a lameness test). I was lunged on grass, lunged on concrete, lunged on grass AND concrete — only to be told I wasn’t lame enough.
Cue Herman and mother taking me into the school and cantering me for 20mins in a head collar, which meant I got to pull mum around like a rag doll, whilst Herman stood there making admiring noises about the speed I can muster. As usual, mother’s appreciation was a tad more muted but hey what’s new? After 20mins, Herman was still shaking his head and mother was looking concerned — which in turn led to her having the bright idea of lunging me on a five metre circle on the yard. How was this fair? Michael Flatley would look lame river dancing on pea gravel and I’ve already got a turning circle disadvantage before we start.
Needless to say, after a couple of circuits Herman announced it was “enough” and I was taken back into the barn. Relieved to be excused from executing any more moves, that the Royal Ballet School would be proud of, I relaxed. Foolish fool! One day I shall learn. One mild daydream about Dolly in a tutu later and hey presto, I have feathers that look like a lace table cloth after a moth’s tea party.
To add insult to injury, Herman then stuck two needles in my foot and beetled off to show mother my x-rays — muttering something about two mice in my legs (I do suspect he’s been sampling some of his products again). The two of them didn’t reappear for 10mins, leaving me standing there regarding the wall with a rapidly deadening foot, whilst being used for poo dive-bomb practise by the local bird community. I was not amused.
Upon their return, Herman then stabbed my feet with some sharp implement, which I swiftly tried to wedge up the nearest orifice (his) with the aid of a foot (mine). Declaring all now fine, he got mother to entice me into yet more five metre circles before nodding sagely and saying I was done. Like a fool, I fell for this once more and thought he was actually coming to cuddle me in apology — for making me spin around like an equine weather vane in a force ten gale. No, he was coming to stick two more needles, the size of spears, into my neck before scuttling off to consult mother. I used to really like the man, but I am changing my mind faster than a politician on the Jeremy Kyle Show.
The upshot of my morning of torture was that he wants me to go to Newmarket for an MRI scan on my feet, as I am “worthy of the gold standard of care”. Or as mother pointed out he’s terrified of being lynched by the 2,500 members of my fanclub on Facebook if he gets it wrong. Apparently, this Newmarket place is very, very posh and they have been told they are treating a superstar — I go on Monday so we shall see eh?
In other news, my third book launched at the weekend and is now available to buy from www.bransbyhorses.co.uk. Mum had a lovely day meeting all MY fans, signing MY books and generally poncing about acting like the literary genius was anything to do with her. I would launch an outcry about the situation, but I’m too busy trying to knit together stray nasal hairs — to make a toupee for my holey feathers. I am definitely looking forward to Your Horse Live, where at least fans will be able to meet the real talent in this relationship…
On a final note to my Facebook fans — when mother posts pictures of the small one and me, can you not make disparaging noises about the size of my head, feet or legs and refrain from cooing over how cute she is? I am, after all, the one with the big melting chocolate brown eyes, the wiffly moustache and the killer wit. I just can’t compete with a tiny blonde-haired mini mother — thankfully minus flowery language and the whip…