Dear Diary,
After the sadness of last week, I have much to update you with.
All in all it’s been pretty good, apart from a slight plaiting incident (see above) which ended up with me looking like a refuge from a fugees video. Less “no woman, no cry” and more “no woman near pulling combs, no hysterical sobbing”. I looked like some sort of Rastafarian My-Little-Pony and had to spend a few days with my head inside one of my new manly black buckets pretending to be SAS Hovis (ninja horse). Luckily my sharers took pity after a day and removed said girlie plaits. The plait things were intended to train my mane over to the “right way” — I hated to break it to them, but mother has tried for years to train my mane and it’s going about as well as her diet…
Anyway dodgy hair do aside, it has otherwise been a good week or so. Firstly mum allowed Aunt T to take me to a local show and have a walk around — apparently this would be good for me. So would being allowed to compete and then spend the afternoon licking a cornetto and a rather fit looking Connemara, but I’m not that lucky.
Aunt T and her mum, however, were not quite ready for what happens when I turn up at public venue. Beetle mania? Piffle! Call pest control. Wrong Direction mania? It’s nothing a few Tena ladies won’t solve. When I turn up ladies’ legs turn to jelly, the earth moves and people look up in awe. Admittedly trotting sideways down the side of length of the showground might have caused a bit of ground shaking, but I think it was my mere presence that overawed people. As usual people flooded over wanting my picture and to touch the Destroyer. As in pat my neck — I like my fans but there are limits…
Being allowed to see my fans was small conciliation after being beasted by mother for an hour the day before, complaining constantly about my sloppy transitions and quoting Carl Nester every 2min. I don’t know which hurt the most — my bum or my ears. After an hour of “off the leg in a nanosecond or meet Mr. Schooling Whip”, a million transitions and a lecture about how wonderful Viagra is, all I can say is Big Bird has an awful lot to answer for…
Thankfully Monday made up for being made to ponce about like a fairy in a spin cycle and I got to do my favourite thing.
No, not THAT.
My second favourite thing… JUMPING!! Admittedly the hour long hack to the lesson did nearly kill me, and I’m really not convinced about Aunt S on a pushbike being much use as a wing-woman, but we did get to the venue alive. The lesson was with a new lady, who is an eventer, and to whom it clearly had not been explained that I am in fact Milton in legwarmers.
Surprisingly she didn’t seem to know who I was, so she looked a tad dubious about my ability to haul my manly physique over anything higher than a trotting pole and seemed resigned to an hour of picking the remains of poles off the floor. She was very nice, but I could see it in her eyes. 10 minutes later and I’d done more for the image of heavy horses than David Beckham in his pants does for women with a pulse.
“Surprising athletic” — cheeky moo, “enormous power” — why thank you, “incredibly genuine” — accept no fakes, and “rather splendid” were a few of the comments muttered as she watched me flit over fences like a gazelle on a pogo stick. Admittedly the fences were a tad low for my liking, but the lady said it was more about Aunt T getting to know me, rather than me not being able to jump higher. She said she looked forward to seeing me cross-country, which I’m sure was in no way linked to the venue owner being overheard on the phone to her insurers asking about earthquake cover…
So she’s given aunt T a lot of home work about looking for the fences to tell me where I’m going — I did want to point out that when they’re numbered I’m fine as to a gelding of my intellect counting is easy, but no one seemed interested. Mum has said I can go out jumping in a “few weeks time” so watch this space. I’m sure that Burghley party is also on in a “few weeks time” so maybe just maybe Fox-in-a-hole or that Knickerless man has called. What do you think?
Laters,
A hopeful Hovis
