Dear diary,
Well the good news is people that you can all breathe a sigh of relief, the helplines can stand down from emergency status, The Queen can stop fretting about what to do with her flags and Kleenex can mourn the loss of the massive spike in revenue — I am going to make it. It was close — gelding flu cannot be underestimated — but I am strong and frankly I know what a massive hole I would leave in all your lives, so I pulled through. You can all thank me later — carrots will be fine.
Mother, rather than greeting this news with tears of sheer happiness and joy, called me some frankly unsavoury things and suggested that next time I wanted to behave as though I was dying over a sniffle, she’d give me something to complain about. I was baffled by this statement — I have her as a mother so surely that’s all a boy would ever need to justify a lifetime of complaining? I think deep down she’s just emotionally constipated and doesn’t know how to let go. She should take tips from mini mother who serenades me with “Let it go” so often and at such a volume that my ears bleed…
So I’m back to work and preparing to give one lovely and very generous lady the ride of her wee small life. Some of you will recall that at Your Horse is Alive (the cult event mum attends by hanging onto my tail feathers and pretending she has something to do with my genius), we auctioned off a lesson on me as part of a package of prizes in aid of the Willberry the Wonder Pony charity, set up by the inspiring Hannah Francis. We’re still trying to agree final dates, but before too long the generous bidder will get to swing her leg over one of the most famous rumps in the country and get to see how jumping should be done. Mother is still threatening the removal of body parts if I misbehave, but since I’m pretty sure this lady bid because she wants the full “Destroyer experience” then I shall do the normal and ignore mother completely.
Mind you, she has rather been neglecting me as she went away last weekend for her birthday. It wasn’t a massively big birthday, which apparently didn’t, in any way, make mother old. Ha! Yeah right! The only way that would be true is if she was a tree… If she gets any older the fire brigade will have to be on standby when she lights her candles. As it was, several people tried to roast marshmallows in the blaze from the cake and we had to dodge a flying Guy Fawkes. Face it mother, you’re old.
Continued below…
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Aunty Em has at least been down to see me and ride even though she fluctuates between clearly thinking I need to be wrapped in cotton wool to threatening me with being the filling between two burger buns. I did want to point out as a Hovis I should be on the outside but I wisely refrained.
So I’m back on the fitness trail, doing lots of boring, boring, boring flatwork in the vain hope that one day I will once again be allowed to jump something higher than a trotting pole. I live in everlasting hope.
Laters,
Hovis
