Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I was an equine David Beckham for 24 hours’
(Image credit: Karen Thompson)
Dear Diary,
As I write this the human herd leadership race has been thinned down more aggressively than mother attacking my mane with a solo comb so only two remain: Fishy and Trussed up. How I failed to get more votes than them I will never know, but I am still clear that I could run this country better than either of them. Or to be clear, the posh boy with the interesting side line in rude words and the red head, or indeed any of the rest of them. Like I said previously, plumping for any one of them is to me like selecting a stressage test – every one of them is an undesirable option involving dubious moves, unwanted actions with no real purpose, and the absolute knowledge that you’ve picked the wrong one about half-way around…
That said I’m pretty sure there will a desire to build something new very soon – one assumes this is why they will call a general erection? – and I intend to stand as an independent. Blue, Red, Yellow or Green aren’t really my colours, so I’m thinking of running under a rainbow showing that I am indeed the horse for all. Mother has given this her wholehearted support for once, although I’m not sure the muttering about pots of cash being supposed to be at the end of rainbows, not sink holes for the same, is entirely aligned with my view on enthusiasm. Still, it’s been hot of late and whilst her blondeness is about as natural as a Kardashian holiday snap, she still suffers from degradation in the performance of her brain cell once the temps get above 19 degrees.
And when I say “hot” what I really mean is that here in Lincolnshire it was so scorching that the gates of hell were being offered as a holiday for heat relief. A hideous 40.3 degrees were recorded down the road from us which I’m told is a temperature that could melt even mother’s frozen heart. All I know is that for the first time I was glad of the type of fan that didn’t squeal and bring me carrots.
Mum was away so when the temperatures starting slowly climbing, I was actually being brought back into work by a now recovered Aunty Em. Whilst she said under saddle I was well behaved, we had a differing view on the walk to and from the field, which was perhaps best described as “fractious”. Apparently my manners have degraded to the extent that an ASBO is looming and that I appear to be under the illusion that I can do what I like: which is totally untrue. At 743kg on the scales the other week I KNOW I can do what I like. The question is more how brave I am to provoke the wrath of mother and the corresponding grief that causes.
By Monday the full force of mother’s wrath was being put into the shade (or lack thereof) by mother nature’s desire to indulge in some sort of perverted pot roast. It was so warm even Sir Sweat-me-not was getting worried, whereas those of us who have fully functioning sweat glands were leaking more fluid than a UK Water company’s pipes. We were brought into the barn to get us out of the direct sun, which was a fine idea in principle, but one that doesn’t account for the fact it’s even warmer in there as the air circulates about as quickly as mother runs a 5km – which is to say it’s thick, heavy and doesn’t move…
To remedy this fact the girls set us all up with an electric fan each – which is the closest Barbie Boy is ever going to get to having a fan club – and started a round robin of dosing us all in cold water. We did get bits of apple in our water buckets, which lightened the mood briefly, but on the whole it’s fair to say we were showing about as much joie de vie as Number 10’s now unemployed party planner.
We were turned out again at night (well other than Barbie Boy, who isn’t allowed out at night in case the local foxes mistake his bright ginger hue for one of their long distant relatives) and then brought in again early doors on Tuesday. Tuesday was very much like mother – when you think she’s maxed out on how hot her temper can run, she flicks up a switch and gets even closer to spontaneously combusting. Peoples, I can assure you that 40.3 degrees is hotter than satan’s chilli patch and results in a level of sweat previously only seen from Jimmy Carr’s tax accountant when anyone said the words “haven”. It wasn’t fun.
We ended up wearing cold towels like man skirts with my mane in a man bun; in fact, when I think of it, basically I was an equine David Beckham for 24 hours. Just sadly without his wealth or the fact he lives on the other side of the Atlantic from mother…
Anyway we have survived Mother Nature’s bad tempered hot flush (she’s clearly of a certain age guys) and thus I can foresee work in the immediate future. In the meantime I will start focusing on my independent standing ready for the uprising and try to ensure no pictures of me wearing a pink towel wrapped around my head make it to the internet.
Laters,Hovis
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