I have had the most wonderful week as mother and mini-mother have been in Div Gone (apt in mother’s case, a tad harsh I thought in the instance of mini-mother; I do hold out hope that some of my brilliance has rubbed off on her over the years — kind of like my snot).
As a result of she-who-must-be-obeyed dicing with death on the Devonshire roads, I have been left in relative peace and quiet with only the boss lady and Aunty Em to contend with. Even better, the boss lady is rather fixated on the size of Barbie Boy’s bottom and so is hell bent on beasting him harder than a marine recruit in Hell Week, much to my utter amusement.
When it comes to avoiding these things he is a rank amateur; we all know that the trick is to stand sideways at all times, never breathe out in her presence (or that of any vet), and if all else fails, don’t be caught. Now in fairness, the latter is rather hard when he’s been reduced to a strip of barren no man’s land between my part of the field and Bob’s winter field — so small that even a London estate agent couldn’t pass it off as bijou. Forget cats, you can’t swing a cricket without electrocuting it into a Singapore delicacy faster than you can shout ZAP!
Such is his despair at both the lack of rations and being made to sleep out in the recent bad weather (and trust me, the fuss he made, it’s a wonder Mariah hasn’t been on the phone demanding her Diva crown back), he’s taken to trying to dig his way out like something from the great escape. Only he’s not bright enough to do it somewhere subtle and as such, the gorge of galloping gormless is right in the middle of the field. Needless to say, neither boss lady nor mother are very happy as despite them filling it in every day, he has it all out again hours later. I give him A* for application but an F for finesse — clearly he is a natural blonde is all I’m saying.
As a result of both the junk in his trunk and fissure in his field, he’s been doing an awful lot of exercise. Watching the boss lady chase him about with a lunge whip is the highlight of my day — I know just how intimidating that pint-sized person is; she only has to look at me sideways and I drop into an outline. It’s like Tourette’s, only less with the swearing and more with the self-carriage. Mother also made him go out hacking before she went to Div Gone, accompanied by Bob — now that I did take exception to as a) I’m not yet allowed out hacking b) Bob is my wingman (or more accurately, sacrificial offering at the altar of John Dere (other tractors are available), and c) I overheard Sergeant Sarcasm describing me as a wingman “only fit to accompany those with suicidal tendencies or Stevie Wonder”. Now that was hurtful. I have been known to be an absolute angel out hacking; after all there is only documented scientific evidence of me taking exception to two things when out. Things that move and things that don’t.
Needless to say, the perfect poncy pretty pony came back with a clean copy book and his halo polished — or maybe it was just the sun glinting off all the product in his blonde bouffant Barbie locks — one can never really tell.
Personally, I’m less convinced that he is bombproof and more that he’s bollo*ed. I might suggest a bucket of Robinson’s apple and blackcurrant before he next goes out and then watch his halo slip — with any hope over his nose and he can use it as a grazing muzzle. Two birds and one stone and all that #winning.
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Anyway, Cool New Shoes Man is coming this morning to fit my new shoes that he’s already posted videos of him making on my Facebook pages. No doubt if it’s a smidge warm, he’ll be half naked faster than a bar person at Hooters and sweating like Jimmy Carr’s tax accountant every time anyone says the word “haven”. At least licking his sweat off means mother refuses to go anywhere near my face for at least 48 hours and a bucket of bleach later, which does have its upsides.
I’m off to practise my adoring lean just to see if I can actually get CNSM to go the same colour as mother’s bank balance, just for kicks and giggles.
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