Dear diary,
Following my diary last week and the overwhelming ground swell of sentiment that I am indeed the greatest overlooked talented in equestrian Olympic history, I have been patiently waiting for THE call. But it hasn’t come. Many of you had talked of the idea of a wild card, but it appears someone prefers the domesticated variety – as I told you all, the level of featherism in the elite levels of equestrianism in this country is beyond compare.
If instead of a ginger-in-the-wrong-light wall of muscle, topped with a manly full mane and tail, which make hair dye companies weep, and tailed with feathers so full and blindingly white that polar bears ask for style advice, I was a boring brown warmblood type, I honestly think this would be a whole different story. I am all together too much horse for these bo selector peoples to cope with.
I wouldn’t mind, but I spent some time canoodling with the chef de squeak some years back and I really thought I’d made progress, but alas not. So unless something changes, then yet again I can see the British teams having to seriously ride their socks off to achieve any form of greatness when they could have had it much easier. It’s fair to say I would have done Olympic-ing like it’s never been done before, cementing us in the record books for all of time. I would have risked being the main course in order to serve my country, but instead I have been spat out like a French food critic realising their cock-o-van might be the reason that Barry the Asda driver (other supermarkets are available…) hasn’t been seen for a week….
As I am party-less and frankly rather peeved, the only good thing to come of this week is we have finally moved into our summer fields. It’s fair to say winter has stayed longer than an unwanted smell in a public toilet and is still clinging on tighter than Mr McIlroy to his pre-nup, but we are finally at least able to be within sniffing distance of grass. Now, I say sniffing distance because as per usual, the mothership’s fixation with my waist line is in direct contrast to the fact hers earns more compound interest in a year than a child’s tax-free ISA. Let’s be honest, she bucks the trend – in most things like chocolate, crisps etc. you get less for your money than you used to. Whereas with mother, she super-sizes annually. I’m not sure that the fact you get more of her than you used to is a positive thing, but at least by the lb she’s a bargain…
This new grass situation hasn’t come without drama though, because you know, this is my life and I am surrounded by insane women. No, in order that Crazy Self-Employed Lady and the mothership can ensure that we know whose fence stakes are whose, I have been ordered a new set. In BRIGHT PINK. I haven’t been so mortified since mini-mother grabbed something other than my leg strap to do up my rug…
So, I am stood waiting patiently, in my pink-fenced pint-sized paddock next to the ginger ninja, whose hue clashes violently with my pastel posts for my call up. It’s going to be a long week…
Laters,
Hovis
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