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Hovis’ Friday diary: what goes 99, bonk, 99, bonk?

Dear Diary

What goes 99, bonk, 99, bonk?

A centipede with a plaster cast on its poorly foot.

Badda bish! You don’t have to thank me – it’s a gift!

Hopefully the centipede managed to keep its plaster cast on fractionally longer than I did but more of that in just a second…

Firstly before I wow you all with tales of more of my philanthropic ways – this time both providing Herman and his sidekicks with a learning opportunity AND ensuring Herman’s children can cross the moat to Herman Towers safely by my selfless provision of the monies for a new drawbridge, I wanted to thank you all for yours.

It had come to the attention of certain factions of the Hovite Army that whilst I may support the educational fund of vets’ children across the land, and indeed appear to be paying for Cool New Shoes Man’s wedding singled hoofedly, the mothership is running out of both organs to sell and “favours” (and please let us not examine this too closely for fear of needing brain bleach) to call in with the bank manager.  So, they arranged a little whip round to fund my habit of calling emergency vets out on a weekend and enjoying seeing Herman four times a week.

That “little whip round” raised an amount of money so staggering it made mother cry more than I have of late and, quite frankly, that’s saying something.  I know the blubbership has posted lots about all of this on my facebook pages, but I equally wanted to say a great big thank you to you all for your incredible generosity; it genuinely wasn’t necessary – if the mothership stopped diving into bottles of wine like Tom Daly flies off the high board (thankfully minus the speedos – and again pass the brain bleach) then I’m sure she might have got at least £2.50 for one of her kidneys?

She certainly wouldn’t get anything for her back, but that’s mainly due to the little incident on Friday in which it was proven not only does she have the thighs of a rugby prop forward, but also the brawn of one…

Herman had rocked up on Friday with a new plan. Which is always worrying.  It’s like a German Baldrick straining what’s left of his single digit IQ, not to mention the fact the word “cunning” said with a German accent sounds wrong on more levels than an elevator in a brothel…

Anyway, back to the plan.  I was to have a plaster cast put on my foot.  Which on the surface of things doesn’t sound too bad an idea.  Where it all went a little awry was when he decided that I needed a tiny amount of sedation to make me stand nice and still.  Yeah, about that.  Now in some quarters I have heard terms like “can’t cope with the whiff of a barmaid’s apron” and “light weight”, which let’s face it, as mother shortly found out, just aren’t quite accurate.  I prefer the idea that I am a finely tuned athletic machine and so thus highly susceptible to performance changing drugs.

Either way “nice and still” turned into a fun game of “prop up the pissed pony” with Aunty Em hanging onto my foot like a Wrong Direction fan hanging onto Harry Style’s leg whilst the mothership acted as a one woman prop for the leaning tower of Hovis.  At one point, according to the boss lady, I was over at a 45-degree angle with mother braced like Hercules holding up Sarah Jessica Parker’s shopping bags.  There may even have been dribble. And that was just mother…

By this stage Aunty Em’s arms where shaking harder than Donald Trump’s doctor before a press conference, so she and mum switched places mid flight with Herman still bandaging my foot like Tootin’carmoon.  The upshot being mother has now moved from the “might need more back surgery” to “definitely needs more back surgery”, but on the plus side her arm was nicely mummified…

By the time I finally remembered how to stand up without Tweetie Pie doing a fly past, it was all over and I was made to walk up and down the barn proving that Herman’s plan was indeed cunning.  And to be fair it was – I felt great.

Sadly, like the cast of Glee, it was not as happy as it might have seemed on the surface. By Sunday I had sore spots on my foot, was limping like the ugly sisters trying to wedge their feet into a glass slipper and as such it all had to come off again.  On a Sunday night.  Because, you know, that’s how I roll. Mother was last heard whimpering something about high maintenance horses and the sanctity of the Sabbath, but then she is a drama queen on a good day – and it would appear Sundays aren’t good days…

Continued below…



As we stand, I’m back with a dressing on my foot, a large dental impression on my heel and a mother needing alcohol, body remodelling, a year in Barbados, her own body weight in both wine and high strength pharmaceuticals and a bloody good therapist, waiting for Herman and Cool New Shoes Man to come out today to come up with another plan. Hopefully a little more cunning than the last one…

Wish us luck, send me vibes if you have any spare and if you have one a nice new white coat for mum.  I’m thinking she might need one of those that do up at the back, with interesting arm detailing?  Just a thought…

Laters

Still Hobbling Hovis

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