Dear diary,
I’ve said it once and I will say it again: Mother Nature is very definitely a woman. Now you might argue that the name gives that salient fact away, but I would argue that it’s less the obvious titling — which could be ironic, sort of like a bald man being called curly — and more the way she behaves that makes it expressly clear it’s a female in charge.
Take note of my evidence; last weekend it was cold enough to freeze the spherical things off a brass monkey, damp and miserable. I shivered pathetically in my insufficient-for-the-weather-rug (more on that in a minute) and started growing hair. Lots of hair. Then this week — poof! She changes her mind faster than a politician on the Jeremey Wine show and we’re back to roasted spherical things and sweating more than Wesley Snipes tax accountant. What is the woman playing at? I’ve now got to shed the hair I spent last week growing, mother’s had to dig out the fly rug that she washed and put away last weekend and the air is awash with the smell of fly spray once more.
Mother is furthermore cursing the new mediumweight rugs she spent her hard earned cash on (her words not mine — as far as I can see she gets paid to sit on her substantial rear end and talk tosh, something she is eminently qualified to do) and woefully unpacking all the “summer” paraphernalia that she’d put away.
The only thing that hasn’t changed is we haven’t been sent back to our summer fields; which is a relief as there’s no grass left in them and I’ve been enjoying my winter one and the green stuff.
The weather was also responsible for mother having such a long, sad face at the weekend, the local hunt nearly thought they’d lost one of their aged beagles. Well she’s blaming the weather, but to be honest it was due to her being a big meanie and the karma bus then coming around and mowing her over.
You see as when I move onto grass in my winter fields (and to be clear when I say “on” I mean being strip grazed on it, literally an inch a day), mother has long since harboured the view that I should be worked harder or not well rugged to keep my weight down. So, last weekend when temperatures plummeted along with my spirits, I was out there shivering with no rug on for half the time and then when it started lashing it down then I got a rain sheet. A rain SHEET. No fill. Others where wrapped up warm in fleeces and rugs and I had a NO FILL rain SHEET on. Someone call horseline. So thus, when she came to get me to hack out on Sunday morning, I thought I would remind her that like her good self, I am no longer a spring chicken and indeed have many old joints and should be suitably wrapped up. None of this “He’s a horse” thinking. None of this “he’s hardly a delicate thoroughbred” malarkey. None of this “over rugging is a welfare crisis” twaddle. I wanted a duvet. And a hot water bottle. And an even hotter mare. It was COLD.
So, I might have refused to trot on our hack, might possibly have over-hammed my residual stiffness and in essence made mother feel utterly horrendous. As a plan, it backfired horrifically as mother hastily cut our hack short and only went around the block which denied me an enjoyable hour staring longingly (but not creepily) at my lady love’s bottom, and sent her into a tail spin of rug purchasing for my clearly now aged bones. Mother that is — not my lady love or indeed her bottom… The fact I have spent the rest of the week bouncing about like tiger on amphetamines and, in Aunty Em’s words (upon being asked to only gently walk me), “he feels like he’s about to explode” has not endeared me to mother, father or indeed her bank manager…
Article continues below…
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So, when Mother Nature and my actual mother get on the same page, I might actually have the right clothes on for the right weather. In the meantime, I have consoled myself with a view of my new book which is due out in November. We shall be unveiling all shortly, but remember you will be able to get hold of the first copies, hot off the printer at Your Horse is Alive in early November where I shall be launching it and schmoozing with you all.
Get the date in the diaries peeps.
Laters,
Hovis
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