Dear diary,
It’s beginning to look a lot like I might need to be in someone’s stocking for Kissmuss and sadly I don’t mean my one of my latest harems’. It’s fair to say that the mothership is not best pleased with me…
Now in my defence, your honour, they are digging a new school at the new yard and as such, have lots and lots of nasty, nasty diggers, tractors, machines and other horse eating equipment. Oh, and it’s all yellow, which we all know is the colour for peril.
Now, just because the other horses are not reacting, should not be seen as a negative reflection on me – in fact, quite the reverse. What it shows is the others have the intelligence of an amoeba post-lobotomy and the self-care instincts of a lemming on suicide watch. I, in the meantime, am a finely-tuned survival machine able to detect danger several counties away (and yes, a worm surfacing IS dangerous), so a bunch of machines less than two fields away is bound to send me to DEFCON 5.
To be clear DEFCON 5 does mean that one has to make choices about certain things; whether to zig instead of zag, the locations of the nearest emergency exits and more importantly, who you are prepared to sacrifice to the digger deity in order to survive. Got to be frank, the mothership is a large substantial offering and as such is pretty high on the list — let’s be honest, she’s no loss to the human race, we all know she entered the gene pool at the shallow end when the life guard wasn’t looking…
Why then she’s getting all upset about being jumped upon is beyond me. I am not, as she oft reports, jumping into her arms like a ¾ tonne overgrown Scooby Doo, but instead, I am ensuring her remains are sufficiently flattened to lie on the altar without sliding off like your elderly aunt off the sofa at Christmas post-one too many sherries. For any of you concerned for mini-mother’s safety, I have to point out that while I am blind in my right eye, my million-dollar left eye is bionic and I can assure you there is a significance size difference between the two of them. I am unlikely to make a mistake and besides which, I like my mini-person – she makes a MUCH better dinner than mother.
To add to the woes I had come in the other night while mother was away and proceeded to overheat like an aged Morris Minor on a hill climb to the extent I was positively steaming. Aunty Em and her dearly beloved were visiting when it was noted that I was sweating harder than Jimmy Carr’s tax accountant at an HMRC Christmas party and thus, frantic phone calls were made to mother. The C word was mentioned, but after much watching of me defecating (and honestly, I have never known such performance pressure), it was decided that I had got myself all wound up by the diggers and had merely sauna-ed myself with stress. She-who-must-be-obeyed in the meantime has apparently aged yet further which I assume means my mother is now a mummy? Bada bish. Why, thank you.
I have therefore been turned out the past two days with several Happy Juice Hobnobs in my system to try and curb my highly-tuned danger reflexes after I jumped onto the yard manager and my wheelbarrow yesterday, resulting in a broken wheelbarrow and yet another call to mother who is apparently starting to suffer with PTSD every time the phone rings. I could only hear one end of the conversation, but I did sense that she wasn’t a fan of my ancestry, my survival instincts or indeed me in general at that precise moment. I’m thinking it’s not the right time to discuss Kissmuss lists, but then I have been wrong before?
I’m off to stare in a minorly drugged fashion at the machinery just in case they try anything sneaky while I am smacked off my boobies and attempt not to stress mother anymore. Well, for today at least…
Laters,
Hovis
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