Dear diary,
If this comes across as garbled at all, it’s because I am currently hiding in the field with every sense wired for maximum effect, eyes on stalks, ears tuned like a bat and ninja reflexes ready for action. Why the high alert? I hear you ask. Is this because your whereabouts has been discovered and your people fear fan stalkers shimmying under the electric fence and flinging themselves upon you? Peoples, if that were the case, I wouldn’t be hiding – trust me, the only flinging that goes on around these parts is poo onto the muckheap and even that’s a bit hit and miss. Literally…
No, it’s because I have overhead mother discussing the state of the backs of my knees and how due the fact I reenact a Las Vegas chorus girl line every time anyone even glances sideways at my legs, I need sending to lala land. Now, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t mean the land of dreams of Los Angeles, so I am therefore equally pretty sure that Herman the German Needle Man is, as we speak, lurking in the bushes with a dart gun. Apparently, the mothership is going to shave a go faster stripe down the back of my legs, thus giving the illusion from the front my feathers are still intact, but from the back making me look like a landing zone for a small bush plane. This is supposedly to allow the sore bits at the backs of my knees to be suitably dealt with, without me attempting to flick the caring person into the middle of next week.
I am not keen on this idea.
To be fair, anyone touching the backs of my legs is not something that I tolerate very well on a good day and I think my last good day was 17 years ago – the day before the mothership signed the contract which led me to a lifetime of being subjected to the talentless tyrant.
Twitches have been tried, holding my other leg up had been tried, multiple people doing a combination of any of that has been tried, but like Jean Claude Van Lamb’s body double, I am nothing if not determined to high kick my way out of any issue. As I weigh in at .75 tonnes and have a snap kick that would make Jason Statham weep, combined with a bicycle action that even Bradley Wiggins couldn’t master, when I chose to not play ball, trust me no balls will be played with. Although once Herman gets night night juice into me, frankly I don’t even want to think about what he does to be honest…
I know what she’s up to – the mothership knows that I know so now we are engaged in a battle of wills to see who is triumphant. I am bigger than her, but she is cunning and I just know she will be turning the full power of her questionable charm onto whomever she can convince that this mutilation is indeed necessary and not just a desire to ensure that I never flee the nest.
Having the embarrassment of feathers which look like the receiving end of a tragic accident with a lawn mower and a strimmer will mean I have little choice but to avoid my fans and the public for some time…
I’m off to try and bribe Barbie Boy to go on vet watch while I actually get some grass and try to hang on to both my feathers and my pride.
Laters,
Hovis
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