Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘It’s day 237,549 of winter…’
(Image credit: Karen Thompson)
Dear diary,
It’s day 237,549 of winter. My feet are now developing webs and my ability to breathe underwater is now at least on a par with a whale. The last sighting of the sun was around the time mother could fit into single figure clothes sizes. The last time we actually managed seven days consecutive turnout was a decade ago and like hope, any memory of what colour my legs actually are, is fading rapidly.
I am so over this winter now. When can we get to the spring bit? And then the summer bit when we switch to moaning about the heat, hardness of the ground and flies?
Between the weather, the ginger ninja continuing to be more high maintenance than a Kardashian in a lift and mother bobbing off this last week, it’s fair to say I am pretty hacked off. And hacked out as mother left strict instructions for Crazy Self-Employed lady to commence working me like Dolly Parton. This has involved hacking around the village without any form of wing person, nor sacrifice, while everything around me is either bonking or trying to kill us; her total lack of admiration for my lightning fast reactions to a man up a ladder the other day was frankly disappointing. When added to her insistence in walking past a house which is being renovated, when I was clearly communicating a different view, just goes to show the lack of respect, she has for me.
Talking of a lack of respect, I hadn’t told you where the mothership and her much-suffering other half were this week. Cheltenham.
Watching THOROUGHBREDS jump over flappy fences.
I honestly haven’t been so affronted since Herman disappeared up to his elbow in my back passage in 2019 without buying me dinner first. Basically they paid a fortune to spend two days watching spindly-legged scaredy cats sprint round in circles between a couple of hedges in a big field before they were once again wrapped in cotton wool, thermal vests and given sufficient counselling to get over the fact that a worm passed wind in nearby Prestbury. The thoroughbreds I mean – mother doesn’t need a thermal vest, nature gave her quite sufficient natural padding…
Apparently, this trip did necessitate her taking more boots than a centipede at a tap dance contest, a fair few handbags and several coats that cost more than my last vets bill. And my vets’ bills have built the west wing of Herman’s Towers, lest you forget…
She did at least appear to refrain from wearing anything resembling a hat, but I do suspect that’s only because she couldn’t find one big enough. Plus, all those feathers on top of all her curly hair would mean she ran the very real risk of looking like a walking bird’s nest. My mother is many, many things, but sartorially elegant is not one of them…
I, in the meantime, was left at home with the ginger sicknote and my snitchy minder, who regaled mother with tales of my spin and shoot off antics while she sipped champers and watched highly-tuned flight animals do what nature intended. And yes, the irony wasn’t lost…
Anyways, I am off to synchronised swim practice in the bottom paddocks while fantasising about being allowed to run away very fast and have people yell encouragement rather than abuse. Basically, inside my large, feathered body is a racehorse dying to come out – just like inside mother is a thin person. Who mother ate for breakfast…
Laters,
Hovis
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