Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I have given up trying to figure the illogical workings of the female brain’
(Image credit: Karen Thompson)
Dear diary,
After a winter that felt longer than a stay from an unwanted relative, it does appear that spring has finally sprung and who knows, summer, like mother’s weight loss, is apparently on its way…
The other week I told you we were now out in the coveted summer fields – although I don’t quite covet mine quite so hard when they are fenced off with bright pink fence posts – enjoying actual grass, as opposed to the odd stem found in a mouthful of mud. This week has then seen another step up the ladder of “summer is here” by us being turned out 24/7.
Well, all of us except for the small ginga whinger, who supposedly isn’t allowed out 24/7 due to his PMS, but in reality, I think is more likely because being the absolute princess that he is, he doesn’t do rough sleeping. On this one I actually do agree with him – I’m all for the sun on my back, fresh grass and long sunny days, but I can do without trying to lie down with spiky bits up my unmentionables and the local insect life using me as an adventure playground. I at least don’t think it’s too much to ask for a tent/mattress/small motorhome to summer snooze in. Although you may be unsurprised to hear the mothership doesn’t agree. Which I find hilarious when the closest she comes to camping is looking at a tent from the window of her five-star hotel room – mother loves nature, just seemingly loves it a lot more when she’s had a good shower, a good night’s sleep and fizz for breakfast… #highmaintenance
I wouldn’t mind, but it’s not as if I get free rein of my field during the night. Oh no. Crazy Self-Employed Lady and mother agreed on some sort of rat-like maze thing (a track system apparently, but trust me, there ain’t no racehorse alive that would recognise this as a track) and then some sort of “pen” for me at night to have hay in. I mean like, what the flip? If I’m contained in a small space with hay, why can’t I be contained in a small space with hay with a roof? Erstwhile known as a stable…
I have long since given up trying to figure the illogical workings of the female brain, but this is a whole new level of dumb – seriously, as I have said before, there are times when mother’s IQ challenges that of a garden gnome…
Crazy Self-Employed lady appears to have been on a mission this week to tune me up. Now, in readiness for what, I don’t know, but I am hopeful of a surprise wild card to the French party.
Mother is off to Bramham tomorrow and one can’t help but think this might be to sign the papers to allow me to perhaps join the squad. I have been hacked out this week (sans wing person/companion/ritual sacrifice* delete as appropriate), had the backs of my legs shorn (supposedly to allow my scabby knee to breathe, but if you think about it, it might be for increased aerodynamic streamlining), my chin hairs tidied (makes me think that my new rider might be a lady who likes snogging, but not her face looking like she’s kissed a cheese grater) and my mane pulled (I suppose I do have to conform to the appearance rules and while my mane is usually more L’oreal than Legionnaire, I am happy to go GI Joe for King(s) and country). Now there would be no reason to subject me to all the above horrors (and I swear to god, I heard someone mention willy washing yesterday) if not for something important. As Herman the German Needle Man’s West Wing can attest to – mother on form can charm the pants off a monk when she needs to (or in the previous example, more money than a small African country out of a bank manager to pay my vets bills…).
So I am eagerly waiting, in my pink posted pen, to see what news comes back. Fames may be close peoples, it may be close.
Laters,
Hovis
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