So boring, boring, boring “walk only” in boringsville continues. As sadly does my stay in the dog house. It’s not my fault that a superb athlete of my talent and mental stamina can’t bring myself to “take it easy” and dawdle round the road/school like I’m pulling some poor deceased person in a coffin.
I should also note, normally if I do have a day when I’m less-than-enthusiastic then mother usually gets after me with a schooling whip faster than you can say “50 shades of riding crop”. She’s just a mass of inconsistencies that woman — but then she is female eh guys?
Take for example, her reaction to a phone call from Cool New Shoes Man that sent her into a blind panic sufficient that her anxiety levels could be felt from Scotland this week. She’s up in Jockland doing whatever it is she does up there (she calls it work but I’m not convinced), so Cool New Shoes Man came to shoe me and, as he often does, came to get me out of the field. Admittedly I didn’t win too many favours in his log book by point blank refusing to move from the farthest corner of the field and giving him my best “but mum usually comes to me” look. (It should be noted, I may have stretched the truth a little in that respect. If I make mother move more than two metres from the gateway and don’t come to greet her with at least pretence of being pleased to see her, my life isn’t worth living — but like I was going to tell him that!).
After much sighing and muttering he did in fact come up the field to get me. Now to be fair, I may not have pranced in from the field with my usual vigour but cut a boy some slack — eating grass and perving at hanging out with Dolly versus being heavy breathed on by CNSM. There was no need for him to phone mother and ask if this was normal. Which in turn led to her overactive imagination having a meltdown, that I was somehow worse in the lameness department — having done precisely nothing except eat grass since she’d seen me less than 32 hours earlier.
Realising his mistake CNSM did try to valiantly back track but the damage was done — thankfully the boss lady intervened and reassured mum that I was being my “usual bone-idle self, refusing to pick my feet up” oh and that I am “hopelessly unfit” at the moment. If I hadn’t been grateful for her preventing mother flagging down a passing RAF plane and parachuting into my field, I might have been quite offended. Have you SEEN the size of my feet? You try lifting them up…
I did pay CNSM back for his ill thought-out, mother alarming by fondly leaning on him, breathing down his neck and generally making him work muscles he didn’t know he had. He was also less than amused to note that my rear feet (having not been shod while I have been on my sick note) had changed size more dramatically than he had envisaged, so he had to come back and see me again this morning. He loves me really…
Talking of “loving me”, Mum bumped into Herman the German Needle Man at the shop the other day, where he was buying some lunch (which does at least alleviate the vicious rumour circulating the yard, that he’s part-vampire and feasts on my blood). Apparently many of the Hovite Army are starting to realise who he is and he’s torn between flattery and requesting a bodyguard. He has also promised mother some tranquilisers but I’m not sure if that’s to calm her down — after he and CNSM have been discussing at length their agreement to shoot a half-naked calendar with me in aid of charity.
I am personally horrified and not sure I want to be seen sans rug with either of those two in suitable dodgy poses. Sadly my Facebook Hovite Army are once again proving that they’re all a bunch of lunatic perverts and are actively encouraging the inappropriate behaviour. Someone PLEASE stop them and tell them it would be some breach of my equine rights? I will need to be in therapy for life. I give the money from my books to charity — I do my bit. Please don’t make me suffer any more…
My three books: Hovis’ Friday diary: From the beginning, Hovis’ Friday diary: The year of the Destroyer and Hovis’ Friday diary: Fifty Tastes of Hay are available to buy from the gift shop at www.bransbyhorses.co.uk with 100% of the proceeds from the sale going to the charity.