Dear Diary
I have to say that while I am incredibly used to high maintenance women (having several of them in my life – two- and four-legged), Mother Nature is definitely taking the crown for being the most uppity, uptight, stroppy mare of them all; and when you think I’m comparing that to my mother, then that’s saying something…
Seriously she changes her mind more rapidly than a politician on a live debate; one minute she’s all sunshine and smiles, luring humans into foolishly turning us out naked, before an hour later unleashing the hailstorms of hell, turning fields back into al fresco spas (free mud pack anyone?) and making the owners of greys and feathered types weep into their medicinal gin.
Then she drops the gusts and induces flat calm (which lasts only as long as it takes for a suddenly perked-up rider to tack up and get on board), before launching the sort of wind usually only seen at annual baked bean-eating contests, which in turn causes even the most mild-mannered of steeds to produce moves that have members of the Spanish Riding School slack-jawed in amazement. To be fair, in the case of the puny thoroughbred community, it may be less athletic half-passes and more they are blown sideways – this is why, people you need a horse with ballast…
She’s playing with the thermostat more than a woman entering the menopause and I quite frankly don’t know if I’m supposed to be growing coat or moulting; the result is I have tufts sprouting out of every orifice, which mother then feels the need to attack with scissors. On her return from Mum-bye (sadly the adieu was not long enough) she took one look at the frankly impressive length of bum hair and set about me like Edward Scissors Hands at a topiary convention. Not since my baby Hovis makers were unfairly stolen, have I been so scared of another being waving sharp objects around my anatomy – one slip and I’d have been weeing like a girl for the rest of my life.
After 20 minutes of me standing stiller than one of those statue street performers (seriously they’re amateurs – they still breathe) I am now the proud owner of an intact Hovis sausage and a backside that looks like the great wall of China (for you uneducated types, there’s 5,164 steps in that…). Honestly, I’ve already had requests from hardy mountaineering types to use my backside as training before they go to Machu Picchu; there’s a lot of steps in both and depending on what I’ve had for lunch the air can be as rarefied too…
Thankfully the plus side of my hair growing ability is that the Dwyane Dibley cut she subjected me to the other week is semi-growing out (plus with this wind the clever use of “artful dishevelment” hides a multitude of sins) so at least I can graze facing forwards towards the ladies hiding my disfigured derriere. How this sort of cruelty hasn’t been outlawed I know not; I am now seeking legal help to get an injunction issued on my mother… and any sharp cutting implements…
Continued below…
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I was supposed to see Cool New Shoes Man this week, but the people with the horses and dogs who charge around the countryside decided that they were going to hold some sort of mothers’ meeting in the wood-line at the side of our fields all day thus meaning that a) we had to all come inside and b) that it was decided that since both Barbie Boy and I have both hunted that expecting us to remain calmly tied up in the aisle while the alluring siren sound of the horn was so close might be a stretch too far of our erstwhile angelic behaviour while being shod. Personally, I think CNSM should have come and stuck some new Nikes on me and then me and him could have gone for a quick hooley, but sadly she-who-is-a-black-hole-to-fun wasn’t keen. So CNSM is coming next week instead while mother is away so I’m at least hopeful of a hilarious half hour if he’s in charge of catching the pretty pony…
So, no hunting, no new shoes, pants weather, mother back from mum-bye and steps to heaven in my ass; all in all it’s not been a great week. I’m off therefore to work on how I express my inner turmoil – a show which I intend to schedule for mother’s maiden ride at the weekend. *Cackles evilly*
Laters
Hovis
