I write to you from el Casa del pero which, for those of you who don’t speak foreign lingo like what I does, is the dog house. I may be here a while…
It has been a bit of a “whoops” week on many levels. Firstly, mum saw my diary entry from last week and was a little narked. Kind of like Bill Gates has a “little” bit of money.
Apparently I am an ungrateful lump of soil and should remember those less well off than me. I think she means the ponies and horses up the road at Bransby horses but since I gave them all the money from my last two books I think I’ve done my bit for those less fortunate. Besides which those horses might think they’ve had it tough but they don’t have to put up with a mother who quite frankly needs a new coat — a white one that does up at the back and has nice cuff detailing.
Now admittedly tearing my towel into the size of several face flannels was not my brightest hour but how was I supposed to know it was trapped in the door? I pulled, it made an interesting ripping noise and hey presto! Mouse duvets for all. It does seem a bit of a coincidence that this occurred the same week as mum posted pictures of me on my Facebook page with a towel over my head looking like an equine Lawrence of Arabia, but I swear on Hot Steppers life it was an accident. Honest guv.
Following up these small indiscretions by crippling mum was possibly the straw that broke the camel’s back — a highly appropriate metaphor as mum has had the hump with me ever since. Bada Boom! Thank you! I am available for stand up comedy at weddings, christenings and barmizty things.
Anyway, in my defence it was snowing, cold enough to turn us into frozen lasagne on the hoof and howling a gale. My rug was blowing up my bum like the wind up the M1, my tail was wafting about like a weather vane with flatulence and I had snot icicles forming on my moustache. Despite this I did not prance in like a furry fairy on steroids as suggested by mother, but rather practised my Burghley trot up at a slightly faster pace than normal.
I argue I was merely encouraging mother to exercise and thus get down to 10% of my body weight and not dragging her behind me like a human snow plough as it apparently might have looked to the uneducated.
From the puffing and panting, I think mum found the jog in from the field quite exciting and as such in a moment of mother and horse bonding I cuddled her. Now according to eye witnesses (ie Tom) I enthusiastically wiped my snotty face down her leg but he is a) old and b) a thoroughbred and as such cannot be trusted.
I maintain that I cuddled her. Honestly. The fact that I cuddled her right on the spot where she’s just had the tumour removed from her leg was a genuine mistake. As was sidestepping nimbly towards my haynet while she tried to cling around my neck for support. If she’d spent less time yelping and more time explaining her intentions she wouldn’t have ended up on her bum in the wet patch caused as I knocked my water bucket over on route to the aforementioned haynet. What can I say? Oooops.
So, for the time being can you send any late applications to be my new parents to the following address:
Casa Del Pero
Bad Books Boulevard