Hovis’ Friday diary: I only spooked at two things – things that were real and things that were not

  • Dear diary,

    I know I shouldn’t complain with all that’s going on in the world; I am, after all safe in the UK away from the hideous things happening in Ukraine and other places. However, I do feel justified at times in saying that life with my mother sucks hard than a toothless octogenarian on a Worther’s Original.

    On Friday, Cool New Shoes Man had turned up to put on some new dancing shoes and due to mother actually having to do some work rather than being all “managerial” as usual, us boys were left alone. This suits both of us because it means I get some quality time with my favourite farrier and he doesn’t have to get as embarrassed as usual when I cuddle him. Although, to be fair, he does still get quite emotional – the blushing, the sweating, the sharp intakes of breath, you’d think he’d be past all this by now. After all, we’re just two ordinary fellas – one hairy, slightly lame, getting on in years but still capable of giving a great ride, and the other one an international equine superstar…

    The upshot of our little mano-y-mano moment was that I haz new shoes, my foot is looking good and CNSM has five weeks to recover before we go again. He’s such a lucky guy.

    I already knew that on Saturday some eventer lady was coming to the yard to give lessons and Barbie Boy was on parade, but still nothing quite prepared me for watching the pint-sized palomino blast about over fences while I was confined to role of “watcher in the distance” as mother (having clearly got wind of my intention to audition my skills to said eventer) kept me in a field so far away we were in different postcodes.

    It was as I was sulking heavily that mother came to the field to get me and my spirits rose as quickly as the number on the scales once mother stops “leaning” on the wall. I could see the jumps still up in the school and as she tacked me up, my chest swelled with so much excitement, Katie Price is currently at her surgeon’s place demanding a “Hovis”. I was led down to the school and actually managed to stand still long enough for mother to swing her leg over (no mean feat – cleaning the Forth Road Bridge with a toothbrush would be quicker) and off we set to “inspect the course”. Which is when I saw the subterfuge. Seriously, I can only describe the trickery as like taking a fat fighters class to Cadbury World and giving them cucumber sticks in the car park.

    The poles were ON THE FLOOR.

    Now forgive me, but it’s called “showjumping” for a reason. It is not called “show pole walking”. The horse and rider are supposed to leave the ground. Ideally together – to be fair, not something mother and I often got right, but that was pilot error. But between the pair of us, feet are supposed to leave terra firma. That’s the WHOLE point. But no. Captain Killjoy has deemed that this was as close to “jumping” as we were going to get. I can only deduce that she has lost her nerve as well as her ability to walk upright with listing to the side like an ancient building in need of some serious propping, because I am more than capable. Age is but a number in my book – it appears it is in mother’s too, only hers is a big number which is counted via the £££££’s she has paid the vets over the years… I haven’t been so peeved since Viagra stuck his tongue down my throat without buying me dinner first.
    I did exact my revenge though.

    I waited until the following day when she was already hurting after riding me and bathing me on Saturday and then did a 15 minute passable impression of a pogo stick with trust issues. To be fair, I only spooked at two things – things that were real and things that were not. By the time she slithered off in a style that the BHS wouldn’t approve of, I couldn’t decide if the gritted teeth were due to indescribable pain or her stifling her nature desire to throttle me because there were workmen present as witnesses…

    So I’m here plotting how to get a new mother, ideally one who doesn’t think leaving the ground is like joining the mile high club – a fun idea in principle, but best left to those fit enough to do it without rupturing something mid-air. Applications on a postcard please.



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