Dear diary,
So, spring has definitely sprung with yellow perils popping up with more frequency than members of the TOWIE cast at the opening of a new cut cost supermarket, and clouds with legs multiplying in every field I can see. Mother Nature however is still playing more of a “will she/won’t she” than Julia Roberts in the Runaway Bride when it comes to the season switch. Once again, proof if ever it was needed, that she is indeed a mercurial female, as one day we’re being jet washed while wading through mud so deep Barbie Boy needs a life vest, lest we reenact THAT season from Never Ending Story (I’m personally not against that, but I’m not sure I cope with the crying and snot from mini-mother – I will never understand her fondness for the Welsh Wazzock), the next being blow dried so hard my feathers are re-enacting a Beyoncé music video.
The sun has at least made an appearance this past week, which has been something of a double-edged sword as it’s been a bit too warm for a rug, but the ground hasn’t quite dried out, leading to country-wide crying from mothers and fathers, who stupidly harboured the idea we were going to what? LEVITATE? You were daft enough to turn us out naked then don’t blame us if we made like a stone and rolled. As you all by now know, mother’s IQ is really only rivalled by amoebas with brain damage so thus, she fell into this category and as such, on returning from being out at a Pony Club hunter trial with the ginger whinger on Sunday (let’s not even get started on the fact I wasn’t allowed to go), was somewhat surprised to see my naked and manly frame covered head to hoof in mud. I say “surprised”, but perhaps I should strengthen that to mildly horrified if the frequency of the duck word was anything to go by. Personally, I don’t see the issue – nothing says “I love you” like feathers so matted in mud that beavers are ringing for advice on how to emulate the effect for dam building.
Upon sorting out the pint-sized pain in the posterior, she did disappear for a while, but it became clear this was only to fetch industrial amounts of shampoo, a scrubbing brush, her back brace and possibly a large bottle of gin.
At the yard, we have the luxury of a hot shower, which is nice and I think offsets the issue of how wet mother gets when attempting to wash my mane. I fail to see why it’s my issue she is a part-bred gnome and thus, why I should be expected to bring my head down into the same stratosphere as the shouty short arse, especially when she’s muttering the entire time about my ancestry in terms which are less than flattering. By the time she’d done my mane, tail, ears and body, she was wetter than the inside of an otter’s pocket and audibly contemplating a hobby change to something involving a little less water – you know, like synchronised swimming…
The fun really started with my feathers and feet as the mud was thicker than mother’s skin and anyone suggesting my feathers were in fact white would have subjected to an immediate psychological evaluation. After about three hours of scrubbing she was soaked, sweaty and very, very sweary and had got to a point she had discovered the build up of grease that had been hidden under the mud. Now to be fair, I’m a bit funny with my legs and at this point I decided that staging a re-enactment of River Prance, with an emphasis on Las Vegas style high knee kicks, was a great idea. Despite her growling like a terrier with Tourette’s, after I had narrowly missed knocking mother’s rather expensive veneers into her eyeballs with an accompanying rebreak of her nose, she came to the conclusion that perhaps she needed a rethink on her approach. She was last heard muttering about sedation or shearing, so I’m not sure I am going to be feathered for much longer…
As a result, I am currently hiding in my field doing the can-cans at anyone who looks sideways at my legs. Without my feathers I look like a bandy-legged fat dude, so Herman the German Needle Man had better be good with a dart gun as he’s not going to get a la-la juice needle in my neck without a fight. I am currently sleeping with one eye open.
Laters ,
A still hairy legged Hovis
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