Dear diary,
OK. I surrender. I throw my hooves up in the air and admit I did moan about the heat. Just a little. But really? I mean really? Was there absolutely any need to switch directions faster than a politician caught by a Sunday tabloid? If ever there was proof needed that mother nature is woman and thus the most contrary of creatures, then the sheer torrent of rain she unleashed upon me on Friday because I’d dared to suggest that it was a smidge warmer than I might like proved it without doubt. The witch.
I went from looking slightly more ginger-in-the-wrong-light than usual due to the darkening of my coat with sweat, to looking like a drowned rat. Then just to finish my reverse makeover, she then threw wind at me which was so fierce that from behind I looked like a black octopus at a rave on a very orange beach. Seriously, if my body hair had wafted any more violently I’d have taken off like a Eurofighter due to the downdraft. That was the only blessing of getting so water logged — it contained the wafting and as such, prevented me violating the airspace of my arch enemies, the Red Sparrows.
So, on the Wednesday I was sweating like a fat-fighter in Mary Berry’s kitchen and by the weekend I looked like I’d fallen in to the local river. My mane was plastered to my head, my feather was wrapped around my legs like white seaweed around Brighton pier and my moustache was drooping more than the head of a teenager kissed by their mother at the school gates. The white blaze down the front of my face had that much water flowing down it, I had to turn away a family of ducks who thought it might be a new water slide. My eyelashes had clearly turned religious as they worked hard to part the torrent cascading down my manly features. I was more than a tad wet.
What’s even worse is that mother viewed it as firstly too hot to rug me, secondly that I’m hardly a dainty thoroughbred (pot, kettle, black witchfink) and thirdly that this tidal wave of water was in some way good for me. I’m not a blinking pot of cress, mother. I do not need to be in a perpetual state of dampness to grow. And since she’s spent 11 years bemoaning the fact I grew a hand bigger than she’d wanted, then it just proves once again that my mother changes her tune faster than Ed Sheeran writes them. Apparently, the vast quantity of water would be good for my coat. What she actually meant is that mother nature spared her the job of having to wash the build-up of sub-Saharan dust out of my mane.
The only good news is the downpours will make the grass grow. Which will undoubtedly mean the boss lady and the evil one will have me back on restricted grazing faster than you can say “grass-less gelding”. Seriously, I do at times hate my life.
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But then there’s other times when I don’t. Like for instance when I get invited to go to this year’s Your Horse Live for not one, not two, but THREE whole days. Like the fact that while there I will be launching my SIXTH book full of witty chat, satirical observation and just plain brilliance (mine to be clear), all in aid of the charity Bransby Horses. And maybe getting in some other mischief — who knows?! I did tell you I had news… Keep posted on my Facebook page for more news and information, but once again I will be there among the stars — where I belong!
Laters,
Hovis
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