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Dear diary,

So, how can I put this? This could be it. The last diary entry I ever make. The end. Finished. Done.

I’m so far in the bad books this time, I don’t think even Bear Grylls could find his way out. So far up poop river without any form of water craft, that even MacGyver couldn’t come up with a solution and with a problem so large the A-team would run for the hills claiming that there was no way they could make that plan come together.

Mum is really mad.

And I don’t mean a little bit.

I mean like MAD. Really mad. I have a feeling I might be currently advertised on free ad sites and possibly not as a riding horse but more as some sort of large, stuffed draft excluder. Mum is not to be trifled with when riled. And boy, was she riled at the weekend.

In my defence, I tried really hard. I’ve not been out hacking for ages. I’ve got a new bionic eye which means like all sight enhanced superheroes I can see things that others cannot. I’m feeling pretty well in myself, the weather was nice, the grass is rich and I was with my girl. Life was full of great things and I was excited. Very excited. It was also 8 o’clock on a Sunday morning so I hadn’t had breakfast which could equally have been to blame.

To be fair, we weren’t exactly off to a good start when I nearly pulled mum straight over my head shortly after she’d mounted. How was I supposed to know she was bent over doing up the girth and that due to her back issue, the slightest pull catapults her forward due to core muscles that only a new born baby could be proud of. And an invertebrate baby at that…

Now equally admittedly, I normally walk at a pace more suited to pulling a funeral procession, whereas my lady love strides out like Naomi Campbell thus usually leaving me with little choice but to trot to catch up. At the weekend she was puffing just keeping up as I strode out with such vigour that there was an earthquake reported in the county. Due to the aforementioned (and in real life oft mentioned) back issues mum was thrilled with the jogging, bouncing and generally jigging about that went on as we sashayed down the back track of doom and spent much time discussing the joy of trying to contain 0.75 tonnes of enthusiastic muscle with the puny fat shrouded muscles of her inner thighs.

We got down to the road and we all settled into something akin to our usual routine and I felt mum relax. Which was, to be fair, her mistake. I think for at least three whole minutes she took normal breaths and stopped trying to beat the world record for the most swear words strung together in one go. It was nice.

While it lasted…

Now did I happen to mention the extensive eye surgery I have had? No? Well, I have a bionic eye. A very powerful, superhero standard weapon which allows me to see things way way before anyone else and in razor sharp focus. This is both a blessing and a curse. Well, mainly I think it’s a blessing and mum does a LOT of cursing — mainly about the cost of it and what a complete “moronic imbecile” I have been since I’ve had it done.

Anyway, back to the events — due to my incredible vision I saw it first. A sight so hideous that only for the grace of god, and no ability to actually physically do it, that I wasn’t sick. MAMILs (Middle Aged Men In Lycra). A whole colourful 20+ strong pack of them. Travelling at speed towards us, legs going like centipedes on a treadmill, lycra clad man parts wobbling in the sunshine. Did I mention that I’m a big fan of Darwin? The man had a point with his whole “survival of the fittest” thing — and I’m fit people. Something I demonstrated by spinning round and fleeing in the opposite direction. He who fights and runs away and all that jazz. Mother took evasive action while shouting to the pack of lycra wearing loons to stop. Which they did — right in front of my lady love, who in turn was so repulsed she started to shake in horror.

By this stage, mum and I were engaged in a fun game of spin the bottle — only a lot less kissing and a LOT more spinning than the usual version of the game. What with the ditches, the road and the baying pack of spandex clad clowns, mother decided in the end, after a good few minutes of proving that reins are actually stronger than they look and she does actually possess lightning fast reflexes, that discretion was the better part of valour and dismounted. Now I’ve been with mum for 11 years and I can count the number of times she’s ever got off me willingly in these situation on the whiskers on one side of my nose. She was NOT happy.

Now bear in mind I’m not exactly small, she’s a fat short arse with the flexibility of the Forth Road Bridge and a bad back, and I was a tad excited.

So, when the MAMILs had gone (mum made them dismount and carry their bikes past us), we were faced with a small challenge. How to get mother back astride my magnificence. Which was a lot easier said than done. By the time we’d tried to find a fence or gateway and I’d bravely saved us from stealth attacks by several more splinter group MAMILs and one tractor of terror by taking athletic counter measures, mother was looking like she had lost the will to live. And for the record, I was totally justified in not standing near any strange gates — stranger danger and all that.

We walked home. With her on the ground. In long riding boots. Which I can tell you gave her blisters. Big blisters. I know this because I heard about them every step of the way. Every single step.

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Added to my lady love now getting a tad excited and wishing to cuddle me (who can blame her — I am a babe magnet), and mum was more cheesed off than a quaver at a fondu party.

It’s fair to say she has remained that way.

Apparently, we’re going out again this weekend. I do feel that if it doesn’t go well, you will never hear from me again. I will be gone, lost to you all forever while a mysterious lump is formed under mother’s patio. So, if you find me amusing, love my witty prose and stunning good looks or indeed had been planning to come and say hello at the Lincolnshire Show next week, then I would suggest a sacrifice or two to the gods of traffic, weather and inappropriate clothing for middle aged men that this weekend’s plans are called off.

In case they’re not then it’s been fun.

Laters,

Hovis