Dear Diary
So, it’s fair to say I’m currently in a very very rare place. A place so rare that Narnia and NeverNeverLand look like commonplace destinations in comparison. A place where unicorns and pixies frolic merrily. A place where I am about as frequently as mother fits into a size 10 pair of jeans (i.e. never) – mother’s good books.
This is mainly due to a stellar report card from last week from Aunty Em – Aunty Em is my favourite person in the world because unlike the boss lady and Aunty H she is not a snitchyMcSnitch; she lies through her back teeth to mother about my behaviour and telling her only the good bits. I love Aunty Em SO much.
Then at the weekend I built upon my foundation halo when mother was on board, despite her dragging me out of the field at an ungodly hour of the morning (to be fair Aunty Em has been doing the same all week) and making me play wingman to an underworked and thus slightly over dramatic lady love.
She tacked up and other than me placing my head between my legs to itch my nose at the precise moment that she had swung her leg over me and thus creating an ungainly moment in which mum floundered for both balance and stirrups like a drunk on roller-skates, I behaved.
We set off with my lady love striding out like Naomi Campbell – shiny black locks, long legs and a bucket of attitude – leaving me trailing in her wake like a fat concierge carrying her bags. The swearing that was going on from Aunty H intimated that her arms might be a different length by the time we got back – either that or mother’s language issues are contagious…
Mum encouraged me to trot to catch up which I did, making very sure not to actually go past my love for fear of some form of diva-like melt down in the middle of the road.
Mother and I had by this stage come to a relaxed understanding with her riding me on a loose rein and for once not gripping on to me with her knees like a hen party hanging onto the cast of Magic Mike…
All was well until we passed the farm yard where all the tractors of terror hang out. Now you have to understand that since my eye operations I have perfect vision in my left eye, but you also must remember that I can’t see a great deal at all out of my right eye. Thus, pardon a boy for making sure that I kept my good eye on said sneaky tractors. The fact that this meant I nearly bent in two as said yard was on my right-hand side and thus I had to shoulder in to an extent I looked like a crab in leg warmers is sort of beside the point. The fact that apparently, disappeared from in front of mother like a solero in a heatwave was apparently a tad disconcerting, but mother forgave me when she realised what I was doing.
We continued down the road passing cars and a large lorry with no drama and even a MAFIL or two – which to be fair were a lot easier on the eyes than the MAMILS of the other week and were all travelling solo so I decided were not entirely worthy of the epic meltdown I’d had the other week. I’ve had to put up with mother moaning about her blisters for weeks so I think I’ve paid enough for that little faux pas to last a lifetime.
By this stage my lady love was getting a tad frisky and I was spending more time trotting to catch up then walking – her walk is awesome, whereas I am frequently told mine looks as though I am pulling a funeral procession. My trot however is a power house to behold – just ask my mate Mary King…
We came home via the backtrack of doom and apart from one half-hearted attempt to launch into canter, I behaved – despite by this stage clouds of flies appearing around my head like groupies at a Wrong Direction concert.
So, thus I am basking in the golden glow of the rarely visited “good books”. It won’t last, I guarantee it but like the England football team I’m revelling in this period of adoration.
In the next week or so I will also have very exciting news for you so stay tuned to my blog and my Facebook pages for more information.
Laters,
Happy Hovis
