Dear diary,
It’s been a while since I have dwelled in Casa del Pero, but I find myself there once again as she-who-must-be-obeyed has made it clear I am about as in favour as a Hedgehog in a condom factory.
What can I say? It’s not my fault. It’s the time of year; the grass has grown at the speed of mother’s waistline, there’s a nip to the air, nights are drawing in and it’s all a bit fresh. “Fresh” I find is a wonderfully euphemistic word, which can mean anything from lovely smelling washing detergent to say a large ¾ (ish) tonne animal frolicking about with the carefree joy of Zebedee on a trampoline. Mother used the word “fresh” a fair bit at the weekend, although admittedly it was hard to make out the word between the clenched teeth and the very fluent Anglo-Saxon descriptors she was using either side of the word as I bounced about the arena like Shaun the Sheep after several lines of Columbian marching powder. Despite the fact she always rides me in a bit from whom the next step up in severity is barbed wire, it was fair to say she was on the losing side of the battle for pace setting and it’s entirely possibly her arms may have been two inches longer at the end than the beginning of our relaxing schooling session.
Apparently trying to stop me sitting on Barbie boy, who hadn’t got the memo about “freshness” and was showing the enthusiasm of a sloth on Prozac, was like trying to slow down the intercity express using a cotton thread and the power of positive thinking. After I had spooked violently (mother’s version)/demonstrated single stride leg yields at pace (my version) for the 10th time in as many minutes mother decided that discretion was the better part of valour and climbed down faster than a chancellor over higher rate tax cuts. With about as much dignity too…
My over-exuberance did then mean a mere 15 minutes later I was back in the school in my lungeing bridle and line with mother yielding a whip like a wannabee lion tamer while expecting that her express instruction of a “gentle trot” was going to be followed. I don’t personally see the issue. I get that I don’t exactly have an insurable leg between the four-feathered appendages I am blessed with and that supposedly mother is running out of body parts that anyone would possibly want to purchase, but a brief hooley around in a circle at mach four is hardly the cause of the apocalypse. Bless her though, it’s the way she snarls “ack, ack, ack” at me with increasing volume like a large mangy tabby cat with a fur ball seconds before screaming about my parentage as I levitate off the ground with all four feet like a feathered Eurofighter. I do try. I do. It’s just the urge to do a fly by is just too strong and I am weak. Well ok, mentally maybe – apparently ¾ tonne of muscle doing the wall of death is strong enough to change the Earth’s rotational direction. Or at least according to a very puce-coloured mother when her “whoas” finally break through the sound barrier, such that I do actually listen.
Mini-mother looked impressed with my athletic prowess while if mother had been any frostier, Olaf would be suing her for copyright.
It’s fair to say she’s not happy with me…
I saw her briefly yesterday as Herman’s more glamourous assistant came to stick a needle in me and it’s clear relations haven’t defrosted yet. I see a weekend of major sucking up ahead if I have any hope of being allowed to sleep inside at night any time between now and oh let’s say… never.
Wish me luck.
Laters,
Hovis
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