Dear diary,
Someone help me, please. A terrifying prospect has arrived and I need help fast. That’s right, you’ve got it, Mother has got back on board.
I was so enjoying my life of carefree hacking with Auntie Sam, while mother recovered from her hip operation — no pressure, no correct legs or perfect head carriage nagging, no poncing in circles. It was just me, Aunt Sam, Aunt Sarah and that May pole-dancing hamburger on legs Hot Stepper chilling in the sunshine. Well I chill, Hot Stepper is unable to chill due to a genetic incapability to keep all four feet on the ground at the same time.
But no. That’s all changing because operation “Get Mother riding fit again” has commenced. So far I have already been subjected to several sessions “schooling” in which mother alternated between moaning about her leg and nagging me about my head carriage. For the final time, can someone please explain to her that my head is large and very heavy and I strongly believe that, as my mother, she should carry it.
Besides which it was baking hot. I was poncing in so many circles I felt like an equine Darcy Busell and she was wobbling about like a jelly on a tumble dryer. I mean I am hardly going to give that Flatlands Dortios bloke any sleepless nights when my rider sways about like Stevie Wonder with vertigo am I?
Apparently I have got into some very bad habits and I need to remember my schooling. I have to point out here that I am not suffering from dementia; I was CHOOSING to pretend to have forgotten how to rein-back in a perfectly straight line. Mind you, after three abortive attempts of mother trying to convince all 0.75 tonnes of me to back up, I heard the muttered words “I’ll get the boss to work you”. Such a terrifying thought — I was instantly galvanised into such a swift reverse that I’m now considering a career in politics.
Onlookers did comment it was like watching a video of Hot Stepper on high speed rewind — something I refute completely. When I perform my schooling moves it’s akin to watching a member of the Spanish riding school (in leg warmers), not a highly bred equine chorus girl with static in his knickers.
Added to the trauma of being turned once again into a poncing dressage fairy, mum also gave me another bath at the weekend — in cold water AGAIN. She’s got some new shampoo which appears to have poofed my mane up to the extent I look like a poodle in a jet stream. I have a bouffant so high the Supremes are asking for haircare tips.
But that’s preferable to what’s coming this weekend. Apparently due to me rubbing off half my mane, the only option left is for mum to pull the remaining half really short to allow it all to grow back at the same rate. Please bear in mind last time mum pulled my mane that short I looked like Friar Tuck after an unfortunate incident with a hedge trimmer. As I would like to try to pull something more than a muscle in the next six months can someone please convince her that this is a bad idea? Pretty please? For me?
Yours desperately,
Hovis
