Dear Diary
For a brief moment this week Diary, I thought I had finally made it to the big time, finally been recognised for my talent, charitable work and all round feathery loveliness.
When the film crew turned up at the yard, I took back every bad thing I have ever said about my mother’s appalling lack of talent as my agent and basked in the moment. Sadly, it swiftly transpired they weren’t there to film me, but one of the small barking things at the yard that has got onto a television programme about things that can bark and carry buckets (or something).
There was one moment when I thought the film crew had realised they were in the presence of something special, when they did actually start filming me — I gave them my best side, my melting brown, “aren’t I gorgeous eyes” and they were hooked. That was until the mother of the ginger wench mare and the talented (in their opinion) thing that barks, said they couldn’t film me as I wasn’t hers and they didn’t have my mother’s permission. Spoil sport.
As a result of missing out yet again on the sirens lure of Hollywood and a Disney film (complete with sickening slow motion running scenes) I have been mainly sulking since.
On Saturday, mum took me to do some poncing in the school, which was bad enough. The fact we were sharing a school with the foreign dude whilst he ran around in circles, trussed up like a turkey at a knot tying convention made things even more interesting. Apparently, when his mother shrieked “gallop” at him and waved a whip, I wasn’t supposed to take that as a hint and launch forward like a greyhound from a trap (ok admittedly a greyhound on steroids, but allow me some literary room for manoeuvre).
As a result of my youthful over exuberance, I suspect I was in the school for twice as long as mother had intended and was forced into more rein backs and reversals than a politician on a TV talk show. If I’d done any more turns on the forehand, you could have used me to uncork wine — I was like a giant feathery pretzel. She-who-must-be-obeyed-if-only-because-she-has-a-big-whip was also being extremely picky about “self carriage” and “working from behind”, which either means she’s been watching Carl Nester again or there’s a lesson brewing in our future. God help me either way to be honest.
My mood didn’t improve when I realised yet again, my agent hadn’t done anything about getting me nominated for some equestrian awards for talking horses in the media. I seriously need to sack her and get myself someone who knows what they’re doing — if that cat can get a film deal then surely someone can get me one?
Billy did say a film about me would be very expensive to make, because they’d have to shoot the whole thing in wide screen — but when you look like a bovine with dreadlocks, I’m not sure you’re qualified to have an opinion on such things. Old Wise Tom said if I didn’t stop being boring and going on about it then the only thing I’d ever make was “Snore horse”, but he is a thoroughbred and therefore is not to be trusted. Foxy didn’t say a lot but I can tell she’d love to be my leading lady — or should that be lead rope lady? (Admit it, you smiled didn’t you?)
So that’s my latest task — find myself a new agent to finally land me a good deal. I mean, if I’m going to publish book number 3 this year surely someone wants the film rights to my life?
All applications to be sent to my editor and in the mean time I am available for trot on parts in any film or TV production — except prawn films (sea food and I don’t mix).
Laters
Hovis
