I’m sorry I’m late today but she-who-has-the-laptop was stuck in apparent travel chaos yesterday and ended up having to do an expedition to get from London to some big airport somewhere, hire a car and then drive home for hours like Scott of the Antarctic. Except a whole lot hotter. I’m pretty sure she will have chartered her woes across social media, so hopefully you’re all more than aware.
Talking of more important things however, like me, what in all the name of hell and the fires within is going on with the weather? I mean, seriously? If you wanted to eat slow roasted horse, I would have offered you the black and white bijou buffoon to BBQ, you didn’t need to do all of us. If I sweat much more, me and him are going to be the same size. It’s so hot in the fields that the birds are having to pick up the worms with oven gloves and I swear the chickens are laying hard boiled eggs, so we’re all having to be inside to avoid the sun; this in turn means the inside of the barn smells like a “before” advert for deodorant. Honestly, you would think someone had died in here — I’m sweating that much I’m wearing my eyelashes as nostril hair and I’m constantly thinking I’ve gone incontinent there’s that much fluid running down my back legs.
Aunty Em has been up every day and bathed me, and I swear to god I’m never complaining about cold water ever again. Admittedly she’s also roused me from my bed before the dawn chorus has even started vocal warm ups to ensure that I’m still ridden — which apparently is to “prevent me stiffening up” and is more like “she’s as scared of mama bear as the rest of us”. The only thing that has amused me is that the manky-maned moron has also had to work — and much much harder than me.
Talking of the black and white bane of my existence, I have decided his IQ is in reverse proportion to the length of his mane. So, I think I told you that he’s in a section of my field, fenced off for his own safety and to protect the rest of MY grass from pollution from pint-sized piebald pain in the posterior’s poo? Well the other morning I was awoken to the feeling of being stared at, which a man of my fame is more than used to, but not usually from 6 inches away from a blue-eyed bite-sized bogtrotter. My first thought was “Dude, personal space!” but then I swiftly realised if I could actually SEE his eyes under the mane of mystery then something was seriously amiss, because I’d deliberately gone to sleep on the far side of my field near the ladies, thus making it clear where my affinities (and my manly physique) lay. Sure enough as my brain came back online and out of a wonderful dream state in which I still had my baby Hovis makers and was in situ as the leading stud in the world, I realised that laughable L’Oreal lad had pulled a Houdini and had escaped under the double electric tape like Steve McQueen (only minus the tunnel, unless the rabbit militia have instigated a coup). He was in MY field…
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Hovis isn’t best pleased with the latest turn of events
I scrambled to my feet, hell bent on flicking the infuriating furball into the next century, when I heard the sounds of opportunity being lost; otherwise known as the boss lady walking down the field with our breakfasts. Although being anywhere near mangey mane was an afront to my sensibilities, seeing the look of horror on the boss lady’s face nearly made it worth it. She approached me the way you would approach a wild bear with haemorrhoids (careful not to be an even bigger pain in the ass) and slowly led me away from temptation. To be clear, I don’t think she was interested in saving my soul so much as trying to prevent the tiny tearaway getting a Hovis hoof tattoo on his hooter. She may be the bringer of breakfast, but she is also the slayer of dreams. Needless to say, the Stanley stockade now has more fencing than Guantanamo Bay, thus protecting me from doing time for pony pounding. Which is a shame…
Anyway, I’m off to swelter for yet another day in the barn; stay safe — remember to slip, slap, slop and drink lots.
Horribly hot Hovis
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