Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘all it needed was Aunty Em to have a set of castanets and we could have had a fiesta’

Dear diary,

It’s fair to say that as we stand right now, the mothership and I are in slightly different places regarding my behaviour. I mean right now we’re physically in different places, which is probably just as well as she’s really not amused with me, but I did mean in terms of opinions.

To be clear, I’m of the opinion I am an equine stud muffin with the footwork of Michael Flatley on fast forward, while she is of the opinion that I am a “0.75 tonne of brain dead idiot with no purpose on this planet apart from decimating her bank account and what was left of her sanity”. If, as a reader, you ponder my precision in this view, that’s because it’s a quote. From her. Ground out from between gritted teeth as she physically twitched from the effort of not wrapping her hands around my windpipe and throttling the life out of me. I have never been so glad of the presence of mini-mother as I was on Sunday; 110cm of blonde haired, blue eyed innocent was all that stood between me and certain death.

It was not my fault. That’s the simple truth of it. From the moment that Herman the German muttered the magic words on Friday (and forget piff paff poof! The real magic words are “in-hand walking”) I was like an amphetamined frog on a pogo stick. As it was, I had to wait until Sunday for she-who-must-be-obeyed to get her poop together and let me out…

I’ll be honest, I walked out to the school mildly enough; this is because I am a professional and have long since figured out that any sudden renditions of “Fame!” complete with high leg kicks before the school gates can result in a U-turn faster than politician and one finding oneself back in jail with the speed of Justin Bieber getting engaged. I do feel therefore that the mothership and her faithful sidekick, the Aunty of the Em, were lulled into a false sense of security. Now let’s also review the facts here:

Fact 1: I’ve been on box rest for SIX weeks
Fact 2: I am a boy of immense physical power
Fact 3: It was blowing a gale as Storm Freya vented her spleen with a ferocity that can only be achieved by a woman — and one deprived of chocolate at that.
Fact 4: Dad and Uncle Ash were tinkering about in a trailer that DEFINITELY was not in that very exact spot last time I was in the school, which was some time ago — see fact 1.

Therefore, I present to the court that my behaviour was completely in keeping with all these issues and as such should have been predicted. Admittedly me turning slightly sideways and breaking into a stationary high speed Paso Doble was probably not entirely what either of them expected. Honestly, you should have seen me! Even the local rabbit militia stopped in their tracks, undecided if this incredible rapid footwork was rabbit morse code to run for the hills or a re-enactment of Strictly ballroom. All it needed was Aunty Em to have a set of castanets and we could have had a fiesta; I’m more of a Leyland DAF lad myself but as a new gelding I’m always up for cultural diversity…

After an abortive three minutes of mother’s escalating levels of abuse, Aunty Em, trying to not act as if she was utterly wetting herself, and me throwing more shapes than Mr Bean at a silent disco while the wind wafted my mane and tail about like Donald Trump’s toupee semaphoring SOS from atop his orange dome, defeat was admitted and we all retreated to the barn where I was subjected to an icy stare that would have made that Elsa chick look positively cuddly. Honestly, mum should take a leaf though and just let it go. No one died. Admittedly the high speed stomping may have concussed a few worms and possibly registered on the Richter scale, but no one died. Unless you count the mental ways that mother killed me in her head that afternoon as possibilities, then I suppose I nearly did. At least 55 times — in a whole load of interesting ways…

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With hindsight, I suppose then allowing dad to lead me back into the school 15 minutes later and following him around with the meekness of a over-Calpol-ed toddler in Asda, wasn’t the wisest of moves. But again, in my defence, the humour was done and he had treats. Ok I spooked at the pheasant, the mirrors, the rabbit, the definitely-had-moved trailer and possibly once at my own feathers, but then that was sort of par for the course. Dad’s smugness didn’t really help the situation at all so I’m pretty sure when it came to changing my bandages and my plate, that mother both pulled the sticky tape (and half my feather) off with way too much pleasure and stood behind dad with the spanner in her hand and a look of longing that didn’t bode well for a future that went much beyond her finding somewhere to hide the body…

I’m pretty sure mum loves me really and was secretly seriously impressed that I can even move my feet at that kind of speed. She just hides it really really well.

I think…

Maybe…

Laters,

Hovis

PS. In case anyone form the BBC is reading this, I am available to sign up to this year’s Strictly. But I do absolutely draw the line at sequins…

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