Dear diary,
Once again, I do apologise for the radio silence from me last week but she-who-is-immensely-selfish was off gallivanting about with Granny in Kenya. I understand she tried to appease you all by posting pictures of cats with bad hair, donkeys in pyjamas and her own image in animal form (hippos, in case you’re wondering); I hardly see how this is in any way compensation for you missing my musings but bless her, she has always been deluded.
She arrived back into the country on Monday and came straight to see the most important person in her life as soon as she got back — I however refused to be mollified and totally ignored her until she had her back to me near the electric fence when I might have rather enthusiastically used her as a scratching post and propelled her into said aforementioned fence like an giraffe on a ski jump. Since the electric chair is at a lower voltage than our fences, she did squawk like an enraged ostrich and prove that, just like her hippo relatives, her size can be deceptive in terms of speed… it’s fair to say she wasn’t feeling the love that night…
While mother was away, Aunty Em continued operation ‘make me prance about like an oversized fairy’, while I mentally ran through every tactical option for operation ‘rider separation and relocation’. I haven’t instigated the plan yet though because a) to be honest I’d much rather do it to mum and b) doing it early on in a “back to work” programme is a rookie error, which results in circles. Lots of circles. Endless circles. Honestly, I hold the view that crop circles are not the work of aliens but more selfish-intentioned riders subjecting their long-suffering mounts to the stressage equivalent of the circle of strife — all 20m of it…
Talking of long suffering, what in all creation is going on with the weather? There is no doubt in my mind that mother nature is indeed a woman because no man could ever ever be this hormonal. She changes her mind more times than mother changes her underwear when I’ve fully committed to operation rider separation; last week I was wetter than an otter’s pocket and now I’m hotter than a Chinese Rolex. Seriously, it’s that hot in my field, two hobbits just came round and threw a ring in it; I’m sweating so much that Cape Town is trying to buy my water rights and the flies are using my nose as an aqua park. Enough already! It’s as if the wet weather was providing the marinade for the BBQ — although to be fair, slow roasted Stanley would solve most third world country’s famine problems in one go. Maybe I should suggest it? #everthephilanthropist
I will at least be in all weekend because today (this afternoon, to be exact) I have my stem cell treatment in my front hoof. This is like a joint injection (so a little bit risky), but instead of steroids or other chemicals, I will be injected with specially designed super stem cells which have been made to form cartilage. If it goes to plan, these clever little cells will create a new surface of my coffin joint, repairing the arthritic damage and giving me a new lease of life. To be honest, between the bionic eye, the mutated blood and now the reformed foot I’m going to have the body of a six-year-old again. It’s still all fairly new as treatment goes, so I am being something of a guinea pig (except I’m a lot bigger and a whole lot less squeaky). This has made Herman the German Needle Man and mother’s bank manager very happy (Herman because he is a science geek at heart and is very excited to trial new things, and mother’s bank manager because I’m pretty sure he now owns enough of mother’s body parts to buy a house in the Hamptons) and will undoubtedly result in mother walking about with the slightly stunned expression of Boris Johnson’s press officer…
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As I said, there is a degree of risk so keep your fingers and toes crossed for me, but hopefully all will be ok. I have to do three days on box rest and then I’m allowed out. We’re told we should see results pretty quickly so baring in mind that mother goes in for spinal decompression surgery on Monday, then it will be a race to see who gets fittest the quickest. I know who my pony nuts would be on and it’s not the blonde broken-bodied biped, that’s for sure…
So, mother will keep you all posted via my Facebook pages before she heads into human horsepital and we shall see what happens. Send any spare vibes our way, not to mention comfort carrots and many mollifying moral-less mares.
Laters,
Hovis
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