Dear diary,
Thankfully it appears that mother nature’s brief foray into air frying does appear to be over – at least for the time being – and while the world remains a smidge warm, it’s no longer the place the devil himself goes to when hell feels a little chilly. As a result, sweat levels have returned to normal – which is not quite at the “inability to sweat” levels of which Sir Sweat-me-not is the master – but is at least reserved only for exercise or any time that mother has a “good idea”.
Talking of which…
So mother’s “let’s-get-back-on-board-and-prove-that-I-am-not-an-aged-old-wreck-even-though-I-should-be-put-to-sleep” plan (did I also mention she’s not good at naming plans either?) is still afoot, which has meant me being dragged in from the field and forced to work with something so wonky that Willy is about to sue.
On Saturday I was brought in, whereupon I instantly decided to take advantage of the walls to have a damn good itch. Which is turn got mother very excited as apparently she could physically see the walls collapsing; I totally get that asking something to withstand the full might of 750kg of wriggling equine muscle is quite a stretch, but like hello peoples – “stables”. Clue is in the title — you were hardly going to be keeping chinchillas in here so surely they should be able to stand up to the job And when a boy has got an itch, he should be able to scratch it without mother’s voice hitting the high pitched frequencies that bats communicate on and having his manly (and itchy) rear end flicked with a schooling whip…
Having been thus assaulted while we were tacking up, I was feeling less than charitable when it came to mother’s laborious attempts at mounting, so many minutes of fun was then had playing the “wait until she positions the mounting block and climbs up before moving” game. It never gets old – unlike mother…
Eventually she managed to swing her leg over (and honestly the Thames barrier moves faster) and we proceeded to get on with her view of work. Which in reality is a 30 minute battle for supremacy on who is going to carry my head – and like Fishy and Trussed-up, it‘s fair to say we both have very different views on the matter. To be fair, we also did a lot of trot work which then resulted in a long tirade about my lack of straightness – which bearing in mind is coming from a woman whose usual stance makes the Leaning Tower of Pisa look like a poster child for a ruler company, was richer than a Los Angeles-based pre-nup lawyer. The issue being I have one million pound eye from which I can see perfectly well and which mother protects with the ferocity of a fat fighter over their last Rolo. But these days I am pretty much stone blind in my other eye. And can I just point out that while I am braver than a lion with the intellect and cunning of a Cambridge educated fox, I am genetically a flight animal. Which means I like to look out for the sorts of things that make me spook, which according to mother is only two things: things that move and things that don’t.
As such, apparently riding me in trot is like sitting on something whose head and body are in two different postcodes – something that mother should be only too familiar with; one could argue her body and brain have been on different planets for years…
The mothership has gone away to come up with a plan to help my straightness which fills me with dread. I’m just hoping that “the plan” is about as likely to be enacted as one of mother’s diets, but if she thinks I am prancing about the school trussed up like a turkey, she‘s got another thing coming.
Laters,
Hovis
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