Dear diary,
A lot like my stressage sheets of old often used to say, I’m pretty sure all our report cards would read “could try harder” right now. If the mercurial weather is anything to go by then our level of sacrifices needs to rise and Spring needs to at least start thinking about bracing the old creaking knees ahead of actually, you know, sort of springing. It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s windy and none of those things is good for a boy’s feather, mane, tail – or indeed any body part that doesn’t like wafting about like an octopus at a rave. I think a patch of white was last seen on my feather some time last year and my mane is changing direction so much it’s identifying as an USA trade tariff…
Don’t be fooled by the picture above, in reality grass in the fields is a distant memory as we now look out onto a sea of gloopy mud with divot holes large enough to hide the odd body or two (NB: they absolutely do NOT marry up to the size of my feet). Any rug which is currently being worn is now a uniform brown and may or may not be capable of standing up on their own when they dry. All in all it’s more miserable than an all-you-can-eat buffet at a wellness retreat.
This does not deter mini-mother from wanting to ride and work in it all. On most things my mother is an utter and abject failure, but on the subject of ensuring her daughter wasn’t raised to be a fair-weather rider then she is an all-star. Which she is now coming to regret as she has to stand out in all weathers, freezing to death in sideways rain, the dark and the cold whilst the small blonde one skips about in a T-shirt and a smile. At the weekend mini-mother worked me and the pint-sized pain in the posterior and we both semi behaved – I did blot my copy book by jogging in sideways from the field which she didn’t appreciate but I was just excited to see her. And my dry, warm stable…
She and the ginger whinger went out on the Sunday (mother’s birthday so I’m guessing she was thrilled) jumping so I was regaled with tales of his brilliance when he got back, although mini-mother’s version wasn’t quite so glowing. Apparently, he had moments of being very ginger and very Welsh so whilst it had all remained well, they had a few disagreements. Mini-mother did wistfully rue the fact she had never got to jump nor ride me in my youth as she imagined how responsive and well behaved I would have been. I did manfully avoid catching mother’s eye who was quite helpless with laughter, no doubt remembering a few of our finer arguments – not least my exit mid showjumping round to get to the front of the queue of the ice cream van – gave her a cuddle and allowed her to think that…
The other night I did coach the pair of them as they were jumping with her friend in the school which I can see from my field if I stand at the end so I gave them the benefit of my years of experience, my international coaching prowess and Olympic Chef de Squeak experience – did I ever mention that?
Anyways, I am off to try and find other things to sacrifice and to look for even the faintest of signs that Spring is on her way.
Laters,
Hovis
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