Dear diary,
After last week’s indignities and trauma, I am still seeking compensation from mother (about as likely to happen as her fitting her arse back into anything with single digit dress size, as apparently she’s broke – no idea how or why that has happened…) and counselling from any mare that is mentally strong enough to listen to such a hideous story. It would take a special female to have the fortitude to cope with the details, I can assure you; it’s going to be a long time before I can hear the word “lubricant” without crossing both legs, withdrawing faster than a Downing Street statement and waving both feet at all parties like Jason Statham with a bee in his briefs…
This week has seen one of the “w’s” continue – thankfully the wind and not the willy washing – and so I have mainly been trying to avoid having my million dollar eye poked out by my own errant mane as it twirls about my head like budgies blades in barnet form. Honestly, much more upwards centrifugal force and I would have been kidnapped by the Eurofighter for fear of it losing its title as the only thing capable of a vertical take-off. And let’s not discuss where my tail has been…
Despite gale force winds and imminent risk of a Wizard of Oz moment (more “we’re not in Kansas any more” moment than “ding-dong the witch is dead”, which depressed me immensely), the weekend saw Aunty Em tack me up and remount as we explored the new school under saddle. Sadly, I mean me under the saddle, her on top of it, which always strikes me as size-ist. Needless to say, I am not daft – I know which side my haynet is stuffed – and as such I was a complete angel. We all know that won’t be the case when the mothership finally figures out how to get her leg over without the need of a crane or medical assistance, but until that time, I can enjoy lulling her into a false sense of security regarding my newly found maturity.
Aunty Em and I did multiple laps of the school as she crooned encouragement (whether this was for me or her I didn’t quite get) and I mentally plotted all the corners, shadows and blades of grass that I could take exception to when the inaugural flight of the newly bionic blubbership finally gets clearance.
Later, in the field, I secretly practised the choreography that accompanies these choices – the “plant then prance”, the “jump and jiggle” or my personal favourite, the “spin and sod off” – such that I am fully limbered and ready for action. I would really like to get Aunty Em to film the whole thing for shiteventers because frankly it will be epic, but mother would be fearful of the world seeing how truly poop a rider she is; oh and anyone seeing her arse in jodhpurs (see earlier comment about her having no money for counselling).
I shall thus go and try and think how I can con her into allowing the situation to be filmed while perfecting my Legally Blonde move (the “bend and snap” for those of you not down with modern pop culture like what I iz).
Laters,
Hovis
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