Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I need some TLC’

  • Dear diary

    I am barely able to write this, so weakened am I by the harrowing trauma I have had to endure this week.  I am an injured shell of my former self, pitifully three-legged and in need of TLC, a bevy of fit mares and at least a tonne of carrots.

    It started on Saturday when mother decided — since I’d had the week off — we’d do some schooling. We entered the school along with the small ginger dude and off we went.  Immediately, I knew things were not right but mother seemed to think I was being awkward due to the very-masculine-and-in-no-way-girlie “bromance” me and the small ginger dude have going on. I tried hard and pushed on but when mother asked me for trot on my right rein I could hide it no longer.  I HURT.  Fact.  Fortunately mother realised that something was wrong and jumped off to take a look at me.

    A lunge line was produced and I set off at a brisk trot. This seemed to confuse mother completely so a great deal of running up and down the driveway commenced, with mother nearly falling on her bottom trying to run backwards whilst staring at my legs. I comforted myself with the fact mother has a very well-cushioned rear end and thus made no attempt not to run her over when we got a little too close. The result of this Burghley-style trot up clearly confused mother still further (not difficult), so I was forced to endure another round of running up and down with Aunty Sarah whilst mother continued to stare at my legs as though checking I still had them all.

    Apparently satisfied I had indeed not turned into the equine equivalent of a Robin Reliant, mother then insisted on making me turn on the spot, crossing my legs over like a ballet dancer who needed a wee. This ridiculous exercise did seem to give mother a “clue” and I was taken back to the stable for dinner and a sachet of that white stuff.

    The same exercise was repeated on Sunday, but this time with the Ginger Flytrap’s mother looking and agreeing with my mother that indeed there was “something wrong in my shoulder”. Cue two days off and me perhaps milking the situation just a tiny bit. The fact I kept forgetting which leg to limp on only served to make mother think things were more serious than they possibly might have been. Oh well. I got more carrots. You can’t blame a boy for that…

    Anyway my days off and TLC came to a crashing end yesterday when the physio arrived.  It appears she’d spoken to Herman the German needle man and he’d suggested I needed to “man up”.  Which is just rude.  After much running up and down which I seemed to pass with flying colours (whereas it became clear mother would never pass a vetting) it was decided I had indeed “tweaked” my shoulder.

    Delighted that I was likely to get time off and even more TLC, I was rather alarmed to hear the words “it’s not serious, we’ll treat it today — two days off and then start work again”. WHAT?!  I did want to demand a second opinion but since she had my leg halfway up my nose by this stage, I did rethink the wisdom of this idea. In fairness, she worked my muscles for about an hour which was very enjoyable indeed — before telling mother that I needed to realise “I’m a big boy and have not got the stopping distance of a polo pony”.  To be honest if I hadn’t been so busy swaying with enjoyment like Stevie Wonder on a wobble board I might have taken serious umbrage.

    My mother’s mutterings about “very large idiots of questionable parentage, who enjoy bankrupting their mothers by hooning about the fields like a 4-year-old gazelle instead of the mature and responsible 11-year-old they are supposed to be” — gave me the slightest of clues she wasn’t amused. The physio however thought I was lovely and said what a pleasant change it was to treat a horse who wasn’t trying to kill her. Why would I want to kill her? The woman has magic hands, thought I was gorgeous and smelt like a polo mint.  Let’s face it if she’d been a mare she’d have been my ideal woman…

    So I’m enjoying my last day of my sick note before mother makes me go out and do some work. I’m hoping Aunty Becky might be up for some steady hacking if I can just convince her schooling is bad for my shoulder. I’ve just got to remember which side I’m supposed to be limping on…




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