Dear diary,
The human strangles epidemic rages on around the globe, but in this country we lead the way in terms of the amount of little pricks we have and so our humans are still roaming freely like shaggy well-conditioned Welsh hill ponies – fat, feral and frankly frightening. Or mother is anyway…
Meanwhile, I am still being starved to death as mother attempts to slim me to the size of a thoroughbred for reasons I cannot even begin to fathom. I’m starting to wonder if diet-by-proxy is a thing? She’s keeping hopes alive of being seen as slim, sleek and swift (which is sort of like a hippo putting on a pair of speedos and thinking it’s Tom Daley) by making me live her dream. But here’s the thing peoples. I don’t want to be a weedy well-bred whippet-like creature who spends its time running in circles like a high powered, confused hamster. I am the Hoverine. Muscled, manly, magnificent, with fierce feathers and a movement that would make Charlotte-what’s-her-face-in-the-garden cry. I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned it (!!) but I have met Nip and Tuck shop and Viagra at Your Horse is Alive; it was a humbling once-in-a-lifetime experience to be in the presence of equine royalty… and I think they coped very, very well with it. My point being, if I was supposed to be a skinny brown thing with twig-like legs and a penchant for wetting myself if the wind blows harder than a two-year-old blowing a raspberry, then I would have a slightly better parentage, a much-reduced derriere and less feathers. In the words of the leader of the rabbit militia, General Bugs, “I yam wad I yam”.
This dieting malarkey is mainly down to Barbie Boy and his PMT, or whatever he claims to have, so I hold him fully responsible for the fact the boss lady has a heart attack if I look sideways at a haynet (mainly because I’m not allowed haynets due to the never-to-be-talked-about-out-loud cost of my bionic left eye). I do take some comfort in the fact his fence is as immovable as mother’s stance on self-carriage and he’s only allowed out for like three minutes a day, but it’s a small comfort. Similar in size to his brain, to be honest. He is losing weight at an impressive rate though, to the extent I have seen mother staring wistfully at the medication he is on and clearly fantasising about a human equivalent. I have offered to coach her in weight-loss techniques, but apparently gaffer taping her mouth closed is deemed a breach of her civil liberties. I would like to point out that being ridden by Dumbo (in all senses of the word) is a breach of my equine liberties, but no-one pays the slightest bit of attention.
Today sees Cool New Shoes Man come for the first since his shotgun wedding to that wonderful and wholly unfortunate lady who has sacrificed herself for the rest of women across the fair land. We will be having words about my lack of invite, the nauseating photos of my “support team” (excuse me, since when is being used as a pin cushion by Bodge It and Scarper being supported?), and the fact there was a mare there that I could have slow trotted with. If he starts with the snogging as an apology, I may have to resort to my Celtic roots and give him a Glaswegian handshake. I am not going to be mollified. Well, not unless he brings the mare – then all bets are off…
I’m off to enjoy the whole two inches of grass I get given a day. And yes, I know mother posted a video of me having to be shown the grass by mini-mother – in my defence it was a strip so small even a London estate agent couldn’t think of ways to describe it, and I am blind in my right eye.
Mother is out for the next couple of weeks, so I won’t be posting an update, as the last time we dictated down the phone I destroyed several hundred pounds of new eye phone. So, you will have to wait until she comes back – you honestly can’t get the staff these days…
Laters,
Hovis
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