Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I’m not a punchbag’

Dear diary

This week has mainly found me being naked, free as a bird in my birthday suit enjoying the attention of that yellow thing in the sky that has been absent for so long. More to the point some of the ladies have been naked too, which has almost off set the horror of the steadily invading yellow perils as their armies amass on the verge to the driveway. I say almost, but since ginger flytrap tried to eat my head the other night I have steadfastly refused to ogle her on principle, not that I think she has noticed to be fair…

Mind you she’s not the only female that’s tried to kill me in the last week — I’m seriously starting to wonder about changing my name to ‘Punchbag’. At the weekend mum told me I’ve been having far too much fun of late and I had to do some schooling. Boo hiss. In the school. Boo hiss. In which Foxy was currently prancing about — suddenly the idea had a certain degree of merit and I bounded enthusiastically in.

Mother’s snide comment that it was a miracle how much my walk suddenly improved when faced with the delectable view of Foxy’s brown and white derriere was quite frankly low. I am more than capable of producing moves that Flatlands Dorritos bloke can only dream of — I just don’t see fit to do them unless motivated appropriately. And in my view chasing Foxy’s rear end around the school was being motivated appropriately. At one point we were so co-ordinated in our moves that we could have entered ‘Prancing on ice’, only less ice and more school surface; shimmying on sand? All was going well and, as I had managed to avoid mowing her over at any point and mum had miraculously remembered which side left was on whilst abiding to correct school etiquette, it was suggested we might go for a wander around the stubble fields together to cool off.

It was a beautiful sunny day, I had a foxy mare by my side, mother was in a good mood, and Aunt Sarah was in a good mood. The fact that Foxy’s walk stride is a tad longer than mine and I had to keep jogging to keep up was irrelevant. To be honest, I was gagging for a really good canter but Foxy wasn’t up for it as she’d been working hard in the school for ages before I got there. This didn’t stop me trying to second-guess mum asking for canter. A LOT. Like every time she moved in the saddle. Or possibly inhaled.

What can I say, it’s that running party next week and I was merely getting in the spirit of things. Mums incessant muttering about sitting on a “coiled spring” was a little perplexing when she’d only just commented that spring was in the air. I did briefly consider following orders and showing her “spring in the air” but I had a sneaking suspicion my bum and Mr. Schooling whip might get promptly reacquainted if I had.

So after our pleasant but boringly slow mooch around all the fields we headed back into the stables. I pulled up outside my stables and promptly had to execute a matrix-style manoeuvre to avoid Foxy’s rear feet removing my head from my shoulders. Seriously the girl was like a brown and white ninja with a nervous twitch. Forget Kong Fu Panda, this girl is a martial arts mare. What I had done to deserve being sent to meet my maker on the “cow-kick express” I do not know. Her mum swiftly told her off and apologised to me but it did rather take the shine off our romantic stroll. I do fantasise about a day when I might finally understand the mystery of mares but to be honest on days like that I wonder if I will live that long…

Laters

Yours dejectedly

Hovis

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