Dear diary,
It’s a day so far into the human strangles epidemic that it’s easier to recall a time when dinosaurs roamed than it is to remember when humans were not out wearing grazing muzzles and tethered within a two mile radius of their homes — or even worse, our stables. There was a time when I fantasised about romping around Burghley with my bestie Mary in front of a screaming crowd of fans before romping in the straw with one of her moral-less mares (minus the crowd — I’m not that kind of a guy) but over the past year my fantasies have become much more mundane: mother to bob off back to work and Aunty Em to stop turning up at a time so early neither the bird nor the worm have even considered being caught. It’s frankly inhumane.
For the love of vets’ childrens’ education funds, why can’t I be left in peace? Or at least sent for rehab to someone who can ride one side of a two-legged rocking horse and without a fixation on early mornings? I’m all for eggs in the morning — just not for drawing them in the school at 6am because Aunty Em can’t do circles if her life depended on it, but she’s definitely one of life’s great triers. Usually of my patience but to be fair, in that department, she is Vauxhall conference to mother’s premier league. At least Aunty Em isn’t a neurotic control freak who insists on the self-head carriage of Viagra with a broom up his unmentionables; if she wants to ride something with perfect head carriage without having to, you know, actually put some effort in, then I can suggest the local fair — the carousel is about her level…
She’s all smiley, smiley this week because it transpires that the growth on my Hovis hose has come back from the labs as negative for any nasty C words so that’s the end of it all — which it was, before they cut it off…
All well and good for her — it’s not her bits they mutilated. Everything in that department has healed well physically — mentally I’m scarred for life. Apparently, the vet that rang her spent 10 minutes discussing what a complete dude I am (well, like duh?), how inquisitive I am and how for a big horse I have such a gentle nature. I was strangely touched until mother likened me to a 16hh retriever — ginger in the wrong light, long on enthusiasm and not very bright — at which point my manuscript on 101 ways to murder your mother changed it status from “mothballed” to “work in progress”…
To make matters worse, mother has decided that she will work on the calendar and not the actual weather and has turned Barbie Boy and I out.
24/7.
Like made us sleep OUTSIDE. While its RAINING. The kind of rain where Noah gives his ark a dry run and we all start eyeing each other up for our number two. Fair to say I’m not amused. Having come from a very posh yard with like a ceiling on the school and an ability to stay permanently dry, it’s fair to say Barbie boy has a meltdown if he gets so much as dripped on. This abject cruelty of expecting him to be out in the sort of rain that breaches the Geneva convention on water boarding has led to him screaming louder than Mariah Carey at Christmas when she doesn’t get yoooouuuuuu. I am slightly more manly than this (mainly due to being more baritone than falsetto), but have joined in our demonstration of both the arts and our unhappiness by showcasing an interpretive dance equestrian version of Swan Lake — Pony Pond.
Continued below…
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I have to question how life can get any worse? I’m confined to walking round the school at 0-dark-hours by a crazed sharer, sleeping in the rain like an unloved stray, described as “dim” by my mother, whose own intellect is rivalled only by garden tools, and with a damaged sausage housing. Please, Mrs King, if you’re reading this please come and rescue me for old times sake.
Laters,
Hovis
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