As I mentioned last week, I am no longer going to start my missives with a comment about the human strangles epidemic as frankly it’s gone on longer than one of mother’s tirades about my ancestry and is these days about as interesting. If the bushy blonde-haired herd leader puts them all back on box-rest then maybe I might get excited, but other than that, I’m done.
Mind you this past week I was nearly done – or at least done for. Fair to say I was persona non grata with the two major females in my life, to the extent that I did fear for waking up with a human head in my sawdust.
Aunty Em had already snitched me up to the mothership that I was more exuberant than Michael Flatley barefoot on a hot tin roof, and that perhaps riding me was going to be an exclusion of most life insurance policies moving forward under the paragraph on dangerous sports. And that was before Friday. When I might have made her cry.
It’s fair to say that by the time the afternoon came, mother had wound herself to a frenzy, so I was alerted to the incoming Hurricane Harriett by the way all my fellow equines shrank back from the fences as she passed, so palpable was her fury. Mini-mother trailed slightly uneasily in her wake, clearly thinking that she was possibly going to witness a murder and contemplating whether she would be pivotal to the alibi.
As she reached the field and head-collared me, the tirade started and frankly didn’t stop for the best part of two hours – as I’m sure you all have better things to do with your time and as I don’t know how to spell some of the very very fluent Anglo Saxon that was spouted, I will spare you the transcript. The essence however was that good sharers are harder to find than skinny jeans that will go over mother’s calves, I have a very good one with the patience of a saint and that if due to my behaviour Aunty Em packed her bags, then I was likely to find myself tethered to the side of the road wearing a sign that says “I’m free because I am a duckwit”. At least I think that’s what she said. She was livid. Honestly I haven’t seen her that red since she caused the tractor driver to crash into a hedge in the never to be spoken of again “bathing incident” of 2018.
The only thing I think that saved me was the fact Cool New Shoes Man had come to fit me with new dancing shoes ahead of Your Horse is Alive. As we have a new place to stand under at the new yard to have my new shoes, I did briefly think about spooking as mother tied me under it, just for the fun of it. One look at her face suggested that would have been as inadvisable as covering oneself in chocolate body paint and attending a fat fighters clinic, so I manfully refrained. I did poop, twice, just to subtly make my point about the amount of the stuff I think she spouts, but that was about as brave as I was prepared to be.
This final nail in my coffin thus meant the deal was sealed on she-who-owns-me-has-to-get-on-me, so bright and early on Saturday morning (without breakfast, I hasten to add), I was tacked up and frog marched out to the school. The last time I had seen mother shaking with such rage was when Cool New Shoes Man had suggested that he needed a wide angled lens to get my arse and hers into the same frame and as such I did decide that discretion was the better part of valour. Despite the blonde babe shouting flirtatious comments across the field, the others being led out (having had THEIR breakfast) and at least 2,000 different hazards that frankly spooking from would have improved our survival chances, I behaved like a weighted rocking horse. Mother of course felt this was due to her womanful containment of my freshness, so how her and her ego fitted back into her car I have zero idea. The woman is more deluded than Donald Trump’s marketing manager.
The display of enviable equestrianism that she felt she put on did at least galvanise Aunty Em into forgiving me (I think she couldnt cope with mother’s assertions that she is clearly as overlooked as I am by Team GB to be honest), so we are now back on speaking terms. Calm is restored at least for the meantime.
So, I’m off to chat up my ladies, practise my samba moves for next time the mothership swings her leg over and count the days until Your Horse is Alive.
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