Dear Diary
Today is the start of the new improved me. I am being re-injected with high strength super proteins to further enhance my powers — all I need is a cape and I’m ready to take on the arch villains of the world! Has anyone got a spare curtain I can borrow?
Yes, today I start my IRAP treatment after Herman the German Needle Man came and removed pints of blood from me last Friday. Seriously he stole LOADS! More worryingly, he mentioned something about having to be very professional and shaved my neck, disinfected me and him within an inch of both our lives and had dad hold me so still, I was nearly mistaken for one of those modern art Clydesdales in Scotland.
The disinfection thing didn’t bother me but the professionalism bit did — it must be serious! Although maybe not as mum did fall about laughing for about 10 minutes. He also left the yard like Lewis Hamilton on a promise to rush my blood back to the laboratory — pity about the enormous amount I dripped all over the barn floor, that mum then had to scrub off quickly before someone thought there’d been a murder. Apparently, if you shake your head violently when you’ve had a line in your neck for a few minutes, it sprays EVERYWHERE. Who knew?
Mum told me he texted her the following night, to say he had a perfect sample —which is great but also worrying. Dude it was Valentine’s night — what were you doing playing with my blood instead of romancing the ladies?! I mean I know that the future of a potential team GB eventer is hanging in the balance, but seriously? Valentine’s night? Mum says I’m very, very lucky to have such a caring and professional vet. I think he’s lucky his wife didn’t perform her own operation with a pair of gardening shears…
Anyway, I will have to give him some lady-loving tips, when he comes back later to inject my feet with my all-improved blood. I realise that all other horses in the area are now resigned to the fact that my super powers will make me unbeatable in every jumping sphere. Adding to my fearsome feather power, but try not to get too disheartened — take up dressage instead. I HATE it and no fancy blood is going to change that. EVER.
The only mildly worrying thing is, I swear he said he’s going to have to clip holes in my feathers again — which to be fair have only just grown back after the last god awful “haircut” he gave me. Combined with his handy work on my neck, I look like I have been attacked by moths — which is not a good look on anyone. I was hoping to ride out the last of the period in which Ginger Fly-trap wants to kiss me instead of kill me. But even as forward as she’s being, I can’t see her wanting to play tonsil hockey with someone who resembles an equine doily. Maybe I could stand side-on and distract her with my cape?
Mind you, as I’ll be on box rest for two days, by the time I get out of solitary confinement she’ll be back to trying to kill me so perhaps my holey feathers will be the least of my worries. This rapper business had better be worth it.
So I’m off to wait for Herman and get as much grass down my neck as possible before two days of boring box rest, listening to bad music and amusing myself with “find the carrot in the haynet” — mother’s idea of keeping me “entertained”. Clearly she didn’t get the memo about MTV and a handful of heavenly hafflingers? Hey, if I’m going to do the rapping thing I may as well roll like one…
Yo!
Hovis out
