Dear diary,
My name is Hovis and I am rather bouncy at the moment. Mum is not impressed. Aunty Becky is not impressed. The boss lady is not impressed. I think it’s great. I feel AMAZING!
I am a feather-fuelled, pasture mix-powered, muscled manly machine with more bounce per ounce than Tigger after a lock in at Starbucks* (* or any other well known caffeine establishment).
The point being that after a year of being wrapped in cotton wool and treated like I was made of glass I’m finally FREE! To run and jump and frolic and possibly bugger off at full tilt across a stubble field with Aunty Becky clinging on like a stick on Garfield to the window of a formula one car…
Her language was nearly as impressive as mother’s would have been in that situation. I feel the young one is being turned to the dark side by my potty-mouthed parent, so lure her back I must.
Admittedly the difference being that when I do finally stop, Aunty Becky is really grinning like a Cheshire cat with a free pass to a sardine factory. Whereas mother is too busy falling to the ground and praying to whatever deity looks after rotund middle aged women with mad hair.
The only issue I have with showing Aunty Becky that big boys have a turn of speed that makes polo ponies jealous is that she is then heard describing me as being like riding a, I can hardly say this, thoroughbred. Which if I didn’t love her so much would be just grounds for an instant saddle ejection and an application for a new sharer.
Thoroughbred? How DARE she?! I’m not a poncy, pathetic, puny piece of horse flesh that might be able to track its parentage back to the Ark, but can’t stand in a rain storm for two minutes without shivering. Oh no! I am a MAN. I last at LEAST five minutes before shivering pathetically…
Anyway it’s fair to say that I am a little “full of it” at the moment. My mother and I may have a difference in opinion in terms of what I’m full of but there’s definitely a lot of it.
At the weekend I bounced my way around the school with mother executing a lot of transitions.
LOTs and LOTs of transitions. Mainly of the upwards variety. Possibly when I felt like it. Which possibly didn’t always coincide with what mother was actually asking for.
It was fair to say an hour later I was bouncing slightly less than I had been and mother was breathing like an asthmatic ostrich. My pride will not allow me to say mother won that round but I think a draw was reached.
I may possibly have taken the score to 2-1 to me when on Sunday she was poo picking and I spent the entire time leaping about like a rabbit with a twitch.
Clearing the wheelbarrow in one jump didn’t cause the round of applause I was honestly expecting, nor did the series of high powered bucks down the side of the field elicit anything more than a weary shake of her head and a muttered comment about my questionable parentage.
The only time I got a response out of her was when she was stood talking to the boss lady and I may have enthusiastically cuddled her from behind. Which wasn’t in itself a major problem. The fact was she hadn’t heard me coming. I forgot she’s quite puny despite her size, oh and the electric fence was right in front of her. I’m not sure the level of electric shock the fence delivered was really proportional to either the yelp nor the slap on the shoulder I received but then she is a total drama queen.
On Friday the ladies from Bransby came to film mum and me, and as usual mother tried to hog the lime light and indeed the camera. I soon remedied that by wiping snot down her back just as she was in mid flow. I thought it was a good comedy ad lib but the ladies seemed to think mum yelling things about big balls on film wasn’t the kind of messaging they were hoping for, so I suspect my little piece of method acting may find its way to the editing room floor. No one appreciates me…
Anyway I’m off to go and await mother turning up to take me on a little hack. I do hope the hack involves the ‘C’ word as I’m feeling very energetic. If mum so much as sneezes I might see some of my Cornish based fans within the next few hours. Yeehaaa!
Laters,
Hovis
