Dear diary
Well it’s fair to say it’s been a week of ups and down. My mother is showing a level of determination in her efforts to ruin what pitiful little of my street cred is left, by bathing me within an inch of my life and scrubbing my feathers so hard that they have dried like four electrocuted sheep. My feathers look like the poodle version of the Jackson Five — all afro and attitude. Any attempt at licking them into submission has been a failure…
Then on the other hand, I have been gifted a chance from heaven because Dolly and I have been left as the only two horses in our fields, while everyone is moved about in preparation for the summer. Now being left alone for a few hours doesn’t bother me, but Dolly screams the place down if I so much as move a floofily-feathered foot towards the barn without her. As a result if mum wants to do anything with me, she has to bring Dolly into the barn too — so she doesn’t completely freak out.
As mum point blank refuses to make two trips backwards and forwards, she’s taken to bringing us in together. She has a well-developed routine in which I get to nibble on some grass in the lane between the fields while mother fetches Dolly. Then we saunter in together with me admiring Dolly’s substantial bum from very close quarters. I do run the very real risk that she might decide to kick my head in but, man, what a way to go…
I am also a tad irritated with my mother because she’s trying to get in on my “charitable fundraiser extraordinaire” routine. As you may or may not know (if you don’t know, where have you BEEN?!), I have written three books, with all the proceeds going to the equine charity Bransby Horses. I have raised A LOT of money for those more unfortunate than myself — although quite honestly, between my “special” mother and my now pom-pom style feathers, I do wonder how anyone can be worse off than I am. I am currently raising money through my last book, to build a new housing unit for the winter at the charity’s Lincolnshire site.
Mother is trying to match my philanthropist ways and has signed up with Aunty Becky to run some madness called Airfield Anarchy. Personally, having seen mother’s attempt to run from one end of my field to the other, without having a heart attack, I think she’s had better ideas. Aunty Becky is 23, fit and must weigh eight stone soaking wet. Mother is *cough* not even close to 23, not fit and one thigh probably weighs eight stone. With the way Dad was smirking, I’m thinking he’s glad she’s well insured. He is already planning what he’s going to spend the money on, when she meets her demise — over some hideously high obstacle or drowns in some horrible brown germ-infested water.
Anyway, she’s running it in aid of Cancer Research UK and has been playing on the good will of my fans to support her. Clue is in the title mother — they’re my fans on my Facebook page and thus appealing to their Hovite army loyalty is just mean.
So in order to remind people just who the charitable one is around here — I am excited to announce that talks will commence about the creation and publication of book number four. Sadly, I’m not allowed in the boardroom, so have to send my secretary (aka mother). I’m just hoping she remembers who the talented one is in the relationship…
So I will hopefully have more news next week about the plans for book four — when it might be out and what it will be trying to raise money for. I do think, with all these people getting MBEs and OBEs for their charitable work, I should be in line for a EPBE (Equine Philanthropist of the British Empire) — otherwise that’s just species-ist. Before anyone points out that’s not a word, as a creative type — neigh indeed published author (get it nay/neigh?!) — I can exploit the English language as much as the next man/horse/afro-ed poodle.
Anyway, I’m off to try to calm my lower leg hair and stop myself looking like a nylon legwarmer-wearing extra from Fame after an unfortunate incident with high-voltage electricity.
Laters
Hovis
