Dear diary,
So, the human strangles epidemic rages on, but to be honest with you, I can’t remember a time in which “socially distancing” didn’t appear in our vocabularies, so I’ve stopped counting days. To be fair, I was clearly well ahead of trend as I’ve been trying to socially distance from mother for years, but sadly to no avail — she’s like the love child of a pigeon and a boomerang, always comes back and usually poos on fun from a great height.
Talking of party-poopers, I still await contact from that masonic, horse-ist, secret hoof shaking, featherist federation erstwhile know as the PONY CLUB. Last week, in retaliation for the gross discrimination which I had seen displayed when the blonde bouffanted barbie boy had beetled off to camp while I was left at home, I had started my campaign for equal rights and for the ending of this sizeist behaviour. #PCisWee was trending all over the intraneight by the early part of this week, and I was hopeful of an overture being made by Pony Club high command, but alas it seems they do not see me as a true campaigner — which proves to me that they clearly as quick as a tortoise on Prozac.
To be equally fair, I didn’t really want to be allowed to go to anything this week as they’re doing a road safety badge, and it’s fair to say that I don’t think that suits my talents as the weekend perhaps demonstrated. In my defence, due to mother nature trying her level best to convert us all to bikram yoga, I hadn’t been worked all week (hoorah for the lack of circles) and neither had Bob, so it was only really to be expected that we were both a tad “enthused” to be going out. For Bob, “enthused” means a little spring in his step like a Welshman on a day out at a sheep farm and a slight tendency to spook at things (only two mind: those that move and those that don’t), whereas I favour the “grow to 18hh and snort like Peppa at an all you can eat breakfast buffet” approach to “enthused”.
So off we strutted out of the yard — in mother’s words “like Pinky and Perky” (with a few other rather less printable adjectives thrown in for good measure) and round the nearest village. Again, in our defence, the hedges had been scalped like mother pulling my mane, so I had a very very good view across the miles of countryside (remember we’re flatter than the mouse I once accidentally laid on, round these parts). I am also blind in one eye. The eye which was closest to the hedge. Therefore, it is only natural that I need to turn my billion-dollar eye to survey the potential dangers of the rabbit militia or an outflanking manoeuvre of a moody mole or two. And again, when I turn my head the rest of me turns too — it’s like biology peoples; you know the head bone is connected to the neck bones, the neck bones are connected to the bum bones etc etc (you’re singing that in your head now aren’t you?). The fact that this then means I’m blocking the road with my ass like an equine Hoover Dam is irrelevant and says more about mother’s inept outside leg than about my appreciation of the finer points of the highway code. There’s obviously no point in trying to point this out; as I have discovered there are two schools of thought about arguing with a woman, and neither of them is right…
I will admit that my shoulder-in movement did leave several MAMILs mystified as they glanced up from watching their man marbles move in time to their Lycra clad legs and nearly crashed into ¾ tonne of equine roadblock, but then if they wanted to watch nuts they should have been born a squirrel. One did mutter something about road tax as he swerved violently to avoid being the MAMIL meat in a two horse sandwich, but then I do think that’s rich coming from someone who equally doesn’t pay road tax and comes out in public in a spray on baby grow three sizes too small. The fact he muttered it in mother’s bat like hearing suggested that he was a bit like a pair of children’s scissors — bright and colourful, but not too sharp…
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We did manage to get around the village with Bob only slamming his brakes on a couple of times and spooking violently at a pigeon, while I managed to restrain my urge to make like a banana and split. I did manage to straighten up enough to not end up as a mascot on the bonnet of the passing Ford Wildcat, but only because mother had wedged the front of me so far over into the bushes I could have been Bear Grylls’ stunt double.
So far as to say there was a fair bit of muttering about our lack of appreciation of the highway code, so coming back to my point, I think it’s for the best that I didn’t do my road safety badge this week. Next week however is showjumping, and thus I think my apology and overdue overture from Pony Club high command should be delivered by then. Please. The last time I went out competing was so long ago I was in the jump-off against a diplodocus…
I’ll be waiting by the mailbox or phone me — either works, PC peoples.
Laters,
Hovis
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