Dear diary,
I understand from my rather smug mother that she’s been posting on the Horse & Hound forums again . This time it was a “humorous” letter to the man upstairs about the weather which, and here I quote, “had people letting out little amounts of wee it was so funny”.
Now, note to all here, I’m the humorous one in the family, while mother is the funny one — and I don’t mean funny “ha-ha” I mean funny “la-la”. Sheesh what’s with the copying thing? Next she won’t be lady clipping her legs so she can have feathers too. Mind you with her short little fat legs she’d look less like a magnificent feathered being and more like an Ewok.
Anyway, much as I hate to admit it, mum might just have a direct line to the man upstairs because that yellow ball thing in the sky has been making an appearance again lately. I even went out naked the other day. That’s right ladies, NAKED. To be honest I had to keep this fact quiet to avoid a stampede the likes of which haven’t been seen since that “Wrong Direction” chap with a penchant for the more mature lady opened a new SAGA travel agents.
So I’m happy its getting a bit warmer, what I’m not so happy about is the annual appearance of those evil, lurking, sneaky, creepy little things, what do you call them? Oh yes, daffodils. Seriously, they are Satans work — them and their little evil crocus sidekicks. One day a boy can happily canter down the grassy verges without a care in the world and the next time it’s like something from a horror film. I mean it’s a case of deep breath, lovely transition, nice tempo, feel the power, look down to admire your feathers wafting in the slip stream and BOOM! There they are! All silent and sneaky with their spiky little tongue things and pointy ears.
I wouldn’t mind, but the immediate and athletic evasive action I take is never ever appreciated by mum or Aunty Sammie. And it’s not just out hacking that they try to ambush you. Oh no. They have no issue with home invasion either. They’re currently marching with purpose down the side of my field. There’s now a strip of grass on that side which, to the untrained eye, might look a little less grazed than the rest of my field. I’m not admitting to anything, but there’s only so far my neck can reach without getting me too close to them and a boy can’t be too careful.
I’d like to think my wing man would help out but quite frankly Hot Stepper has blatantly smacked himself in the head with his own knees a few too many times to be of any real assistance. I take impressive evasive action (NOTE I do not “spook”, that is what girls and thoroughbreds do), check to see if he’s got my back and he’s 50 yards away with his river dancing legs going like an equine Michael Flatley at rave concert. I’ve got mum and/or aunty Sam yelling in my ear that I’m a banker with unmarried parents and my equine backup has piaffed past me like a ballet dancer on speed.
In this impossible situation I am left with few choices: risk mum’s wrath, turn tail and head for home, jump over the sea of yellow perils and risk mum exiting out of the backdoor into their clutches, or go all Terminator on their skinny yellow asses. Option 1 and 2 have a very direct link to the pain inflicted on my delicate derriere and let’s face it I have very very big feet.
So next time you drive past a sea of crushed crocuses, damaged daffodils and forlornly flattened foliage just remember they don’t call me The Destroyer for nothing.
Hovis 1 — Herbaceous border 0
Hovis “The Daffodil Destroyer” signing out
