Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘woe is me, winter is coming’

Dear Diary

As this week comes to a close, I thought in true ‘Hovis, the helpful horse fashion’ I would share with you some of my key learnings:

Firstly, winter is coming. I know this because a: it’s getting rather chilly at night; b: mother is starting muttering about bedding with that look in her eyes that signals she can envision the next few months living on baked beans to pay for it all; and c: we’ve moved down to our winter fields which are closer to the barns and the house. Normally to be fair the winter move doesn’t bother me, but this year I am rather bent out of shape about it – more about why in a minute.

Secondly, women are never ever, ever, ever happy. I mean like never. Be that Aunty Em or she-who-is-a-witch-but-I’m-not-brave-enough-to-tell-her. The other week it was all doom and gloom about the hole in my soggy sole and whether I would be more crippled than Victoria Beckham in flats without my shoes. I repeatedly, and very demonstrably proved I am neither lame nor footsore by leaping about like an electrocuted lizard, performing airs above ground that have the royal ballet on the phone every day begging me to join them and generally all-round ensuring that Aunty Em is reassured and what do I get? Yelled at. A LOT. And snitched on to mother. Apparently, the wall of death and the flying bucks were “impressive”, but what really upset her was the volley of flatulence; what can I say? I’m a big lad and to get that airborne requires a huge degree of upwards thrust.

Evidentially, I was vertically active enough to have quelled any thought of wanting to get on board until I “remembered that feet should remain on the floor” so I have done a lot of groundwork this week. Groundwork sucks harder than a toothless granny on a Werther’s Original…

Thirdly, I am the greatest unrecognised equine trainer in the world. Seriously peoples, wake up and smell more than my flatulence. When is someone finally going to see the insurmountable evidence and ask me to be chef d’equipe? This week’s evidence was seen in my old next door stable pal Nip and Tuck Shop and his wonderful LeMieux grand prix win. Now it’s clearly taken him a while to wrap his head around everything I taught him in the few days that we were stabled next to each other at Your Horse is Alive, but the boy has finally gone and done it. His success combined with my successful coaching of Jonty and Art, Ros Canter and Sarah Bullimore provide indisputable evidence that I am a coaching force of nature. We need a secret weapon to smash the might of the Germans and I’m telling you peoples that weapon wears feathers…

Anyway, back to other issues: or more pointedly my winter field woes. I get that we have to be put into new grass slowly and carefully (well I don’t GET it, but I have at least become accustomed to it after all these years). I get that I will be confined to a small space while my body adjusts to the plentiful grass revealed one painstaking inch at a time as the electric fence moves back as slowly as a sloth with sleeping sickness. Honestly, by the time I get to the end of the field we will have left the EU and be back in it again…

Continued below…

Hovis’ Friday diary: mother has an IQ in inverse proportion to the size of her airbags…

Hovis says that he is really peeved this week...

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Now I don’t agree with any of this, but I tolerate it. Principally as I don’t have any choice and the electric fence at our yard runs at the same voltage as the chair… HOWEVER, what is new this year is the additional feature in MY field which appears to have been left behind on the land like a discarded tent after Reading and Leeds. Only a tent is useful… It’s a small, blue-eyed pain-in-the-ass piebald and it’s literally in my dance space. I mean any closer and I’ll be using his mane as an undercarriage toupee.

We are still separated by multiple strands of high voltage Bijou Bovine bogtrotter bouncing barrier, but it might just be worth the pain just to flick the furball to Felixstowe with my feathered foot. If I have to spend all winter with the foot-high fluffball freeloading on my grass then I’m looking for a new home. I wonder if when I go to Your Horse I Alive someone could kidnap me? Please?

Laters,

Hovis

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