Sadly, as I type, the war rages in Ukraine with little to no sign of it stopping any time soon and so across social media and the world efforts still remain to raise funds to help. The incredible team, including stand-in Cool New Shoes Man, Ben Smith, that took nine horse lorries laden with supplies across to the border are now making their way home, lorries full of equestrian aid are heading out and news has filtered in of the first batch of horses making it across to the safety of the equine reception centres in Poland. The fundraising page on my own pages will be closed this weekend and the monies donated to the Red Cross, so from the bottom of my hooves, thank you for all you have done.
Mother was one of many people who has not only donated but also booked accommodation through AirBnB to get money to the owners in Ukraine. She booked a small family property in Kiev and I briefly entertained the thought of her going – let’s be honest, the woman is positively terrifying and one look at her in jodhpurs would repel pretty much anything, let alone an advancing army. But then I also realised the people of Ukraine have suffered enough and thus, unleashing Combat Karen into their midst would have been a bridge too far. Tempting though…
So, sadly, this has meant that she has had time to reconnect with her other “skills” (note this word is so dripping with sarcasm that Cape Town will be applying for abstraction rights) – in this case riding. Now to be clear, many years ago several professionals told her that riding wasn’t a good idea; and no, I’m not talking about her back surgeon, who frankly has given up on her, but Evil Army Man and any other instructor who has had the misfortune to try and entice an inch of talent from her substantial but unskilled derriere. Who knows the expression about polishing a poo?
Yeah, well you can’t teach the untalented either – and, frankly, when it comes to skills, mother is the children’s safety scissors equivalent of riding – looks bright enough, but is actually utterly useless when it comes to actually doing anything. This was also before her long-suffering back surgeon had another go at playing Jenga with her spine in December and before the saint of a physio that she sees spends every week trying to straighten her up to at least the extent of looking mildly off kilter rather than a human Leaning Tower of Pisa. Or in mother’s case, pizza.
Watching mother mount is like watching an aged half-blind tortoise in need of a hip operation carry out a move from the Karma Sutra on an unsuspecting rock. It may be filled with enthusiasm, but athletic it is not. There are hinged bridges that open faster than mother’s hip joints. When she finally does get up there, her weight is so badly over to one side that if I was a) delicate b) well trained or c) responsive to my rider’s aids, we would be moving in constant circles for forever more. Or at least egg-like shapes, as circles is another thing beyond my mother. Luckily for her I am none of the above, so I mainly ignore what her ass weight distribution is telling me (other than she needs a grazing muzzle – stat!) and plod enthusiastically around the school. Well, when I say “enthusiastically” I mean I channel my inner funeral procession vibe, lean on mother’s hands and occasionally throw in a Stevie Wonder in a L’Oreal commercial head move just to see if I can actually make her throw up in pain. Sadly, for me anyway, the only thing that is actually fully functioning on mother is her stubbornness, so I don’t see this debacle desisting any time soon. She did actually mention the “T” word the other day, which probably goes to show you how deluded she is – although to be fair she did aim this at Aunty Em who is a lot younger, less broken and in possession of both an electric arse and inner thighs of steel, so it may be that this falls under the auspices of sharer duties for a while.
Anyways, I’m off to wash my mane, practise boinging now that it feels spring has sprung and to rustle up any last-minute donations to my fundraising.
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