Dear diary
I have news! Finally mother might have got the hint about the role she’s supposed to play as my “manager” (and I use the word very loosely) and appears to be actually doing her job. She’s been at meetings this week about the possibility of me releasing my 3rd book this autumn along with possible merchandise. I’m not entirely sure what this “merchandise” thing is but if it leads to fame, fortune and a film deal then all is cool.
Sadly the “fortune” bit is already unlikely because I overhead the boss lady telling mum how generous she and I are to give all the money to charity again. Sometimes I don’t get my mum; one minute she’s telling me money doesn’t grow on trees and the next she’s giving all our possible earnings to those “less fortunate” than me. I have said it before and I say it again — how can anyone be less fortunate than me? I have a raving lunatic for a mother, a sharer who thinks hacking out alone sans wingman is not certifiable, a mane with uncanny resemblance to a bog brush, zero ability to pull anything other than a muscle and in the wrong light people think I’m ginger. I rest my case your honour…
Anyway I’m sure I’ll have more updates on the situation shortly, I’ll keep you posted.
In other news, mother and I might have had a falling out over the weekend resulting in her threatening to leave me tethered to the side of the road with a “free to any home” sign around my neck. Note it wouldn’t even have been “free to a GOOD home” sign; she said she wasn’t going to be fussy, so I correctly guessed she was rather peeved. It had started off ok with a nice stroll out with my numero uno wingman Billy, along the main roads and then into a field at the side where we had a lovely long canter down the verge (before anyone says anything about us being naughty the fields belong to the boss lady so we’re allowed). I didn’t pull, I let Billy canter alongside and all was good.
We then went back onto the road and then down onto the bridle path, which is where the trouble might have started. Is it my fault that there were HUNDREDS of MASSIVE tractors about? Is it my fault that because my wingman has the appearance of a dopey bovine and the survival instincts of a lemming, that I have to occasionally be the one who proves that Darwin bloke right? It’s survival of the fittest people and “he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day “ does accurately translate to “turn round and bugger off when we meet tractors on a tight bridleway in the middle of nowhere”. It does. Promise. The fact that Billy just stands and looks at me like I am an utter pansy says less about my dislike of tractors and more about his lack of awareness of the basic principles of natural selection. Mother sadly doesn’t agree.
After tractor number 3 (closely followed by the yellow dustbin cart that stalked us all the way home — and don’t think I didn’t notice) and a beautifully executed canter pirouette, that judging by mother’s impromptu ear inspection and flowery descriptions, she wasn’t expecting, it became clear I was edging closer to the dog house. I’m not sure if this was due to the way I was flitting between “I am still so tired from my cross-country, I can’t pick my own feet up” and “It’s a TRACTOR! I’ve found my nitrox button and I’m out of here” or the fact that spring seems to make all the mares hormonal. But it’s fair to say mother was not my biggest fan by the time we got back to the yard.
I did try to redeem myself with some semi-passable school work over the weekend but it’s fair to say it made a barely discernable dint in the general air of frostiness between us. In hindsight, wiping snot over her hair on Sunday probably didn’t aid my cause but heh it was that or Dolly’s bum, and whatever else she does at least mum doesn’t try to double barrel me in the head…
Anyways, I’m off to work on the title for book number 3, ponder the unfairness of mother who can’t see how dangerous tractors are and await more poncing with Aunty Becky.
Laters
Hovis
