Dear Diary
Please help! I am being slow roasted as we speak like a large orange Hovis burger on legs. What is with the man upstairs and the thermostat at the moment? And more to the point why has my mother not got the memo that working in this heat is INSANE?
On Friday, even Cool New Shoes Man agreed with me (I have made a diary note of this fact) because he seemed to think cuddling me in this heat was mad too. I would like to point out after all the sweating, panting and general moaning he put in to lifting 1 of my legs to do my shoes, I have to lift 4 of them. So imagine how I feel?!
Then imagine having to lift four of them with my mother on your back. Actually don’t imagine that… I’ve just had a mental image of my mother and Cool News Shoes Man doing a piggy back and may now need therapy for the rest of my days. Pass the brain bleach someone quick!
So after I had my shiny new front shoes fitted and mum agreed to leave my back ones off for a bit (personally I think the speech CNSM gave her about giving my feet a break was hogwash — he was just too hot and sweaty to want to put my back shoes on) I briefly dreamt of a weekend off to enjoy the sunshine.
Silly me.
This is my life and I have one large handicap to my happiness — mother. More to the point mother’s cheerful belief that one day if a miracle occurs, and if she’s spent several years of her life torturing me, whilst her legs are strapped to my side with naughty straps, that she might vaguely resemble a decent rider. God bless her little cotton socks.
So with Captain Optimistic on board, I was forced to endure an hour of poncing in 100 degree heat whilst mother wriggled about trying to look like Carl Nester. I’m sure there must be strong enough medication out there somewhere to deal with mother’s level of delusions? Someone please tell me there is?
THEN the following day deciding her legs hurt — oh hello what about MY legs — I was forced to run around in circles whilst she made the funny noises that she believes make me go faster. I let her think that because watching her stand there making noises like a constipated chicken amuses me immensely. Simple pleasures folks, simple pleasures.
Foxy was having her feet done whilst I ran around like a large sweaty carousel horse so I briefly tried to impress her with a flurry of bucking, snorting and stallion like charging. She looked unimpressed, Aunty Sarah looked slightly alarmed and mum nearly fell flat on her face in the school. All-in-all as ideas went, I acknowledge it was possibly not one of my better ones…
All then went quiet for a few days and I was lulled into a false sense of security. Then on Wednesday morning, in a cunning surprise — an early morning mid-week attack, mother pounced. I was bundled into the school accompanied by the Ginger fly trap’s mother and my heart sank. It was blazing hot, my delusional mother thinks that we’re like the thicker set version of Charlotte What’s-her-name and that poncing dude and we’re about to get screamed at for an hour. Oh goodie.
Then the poles came out. My ears pricked. Then the jump wings came out. My spirits soared. Admittedly, so did mother as we went over the jump the first time, aptly showing Aunt A the problem we are currently having — i.e. power of my bum + jump = mum doing a mid air ear inspection.
For an hour, we bounded about over jumps whilst mother’s position was worked upon. It was GREAT! I got to do what I love and for once I was the one being told I was in the right and mother was being told she has the riding capability of a stick-on Garfield on a mechanical bull. It’s fair to say Ginger fly trap’s mother (Aunt A) is my new hero. I LOVE that woman! Until the next time we do flat work, then I reserve the right to dislike her again…
By the end we were sweaty, exhausted but happy. Mother because despite a couple of impressive attempts she’d not actually fallen off and me because we’re JUMPING again and it feels great! Aunt A did comment how forward I am when there’s a jump around. Like DUH! I have been telling you all this for YEARS. The only good flatwork is the bit between jumps.
So I’m off to adjust my carrot bag on my ears, practise my foreign lingo and wait for the call up to go on some showjumping tour around the world. But not the hot bits of the world please.
Laters
Hovis
