Dear diary,
I do feel like last week’s diary caused a fair few of you to worry — now there’s a couple of things you need to remember here; firstly, I do fear at times my secretary gets above her station and puts her own views across under the auspices of my pen name, and secondly peoples, at times I do think you all forget that I am the Destroyer. Simples put, I am a long way from the scrapheap yet — which this week I set out to prove…
Now in fairness to the main beneficiary of my philanthropic foibles (aka Herman the German Needle Man), he had to endure multiple hysterical phone calls from the mothership on the back of my lameness issues the previous Sunday, so there are days (well a few minutes at least) when I do feel he has earned the right to the moat, the west wing and the Olympic-sized swimming pool that over the years mother and the insurance company have paid for. The end result of this was mother being on the receiving end of a very German dressing down regarding her negative Nancy ways, and the fact if he’d have shot her every time she limped then she would have been dispatched years ago. Think of the life I could have had *sighs*
Anyway, while we all do acknowledge that delayed euthanasia is one of the biggest welfare concerns facing the UK, one should always listen to the advice of the professionals, and so I have generously decided to see if mother copes with another winter. If she doesn’t, I will be trading her in for my mate Mrs King, who I hear might be on the lookout for another horse soon *raises hoof and waves*.
Despite my generosity, I was still mildly miffed over mother’s monumental meltdown and thus, over the space of the week ate my drugs, rested my foot and plotted my revenge. By the time Sunday came, it was deemed I appeared sound enough for a “gentle pootle” around the stubble field, where the ground was gloriously soft, but no road work and at the first sign of any discomfort, mother assured me we would abort. Sadly, the sign of discomfort came as soon as she came to retrieve me from the field; I bounced out with so much zest, I barrelled into her buxom boobage and her backside connected with the electric fence. Discomfort is perhaps too mild a word for the way she limped back to the barn, but on a lameness rating she would have been on the cusp of “shoot her now”. As I jauntily sashayed about the barn while she attempted to tack me up and I maintained correct social distancing from my saddle, my bridle and indeed mother herself, it was noted by Aunt C that I appeared “much-improved” and that this might all “end in tears”. It usually does — but they’re rarely mine. Unless the wind is blowing, then my bad eye does unfortunately leak a tad, leaving me with single tear tracks and a Hallmark card’s boff-worthy slogan ringing in my ears.
By the time I was led out to the school and mother began the laborious task of getting her leg over, I was skipping about like Larry the Lamb while she looked like she needed the assistance of a crane. Why is it that one little “arthritic flair up” and I’m two inches away from the long goodnight, and yet mother moves like she’s either in need of some clean pants or new hips (and knees and definitely a back) and she’s a) allowed to carry on regardless, b) given some seriously good drugs and c) is praised for her bravery. Honestly, the amount of double standards in play are wrong on more levels than a lift in a brothel.
So, it’s fair to say I bounced into the field like Tigger after 10 cups of coffee and proceeded to engage the Hoverine; 19hh of snorting manly magnificence as I piaffed across the ploughed patches like Michael Flatley at a barn dance. By the time we’d got only half way round, I’d nearly flattened a rabbit on steroids (mother claims hair, but to be honest I’d say it was more fur?), been divebombed by swallows, spooked at two things (things that moved and things that didn’t), wedged my head up Bob’s bottom like a black and white balaclava and then reared having taken umbrage at the not very passive, but definitely aggressive swishing of his tail. Mum was swearing like someone with uncontrollable verbal diarrhoea, with arms so stretched she could have auditioned for the Incredibles as I stormed out with the sort of powerhouse high-kneed walk not seen since Moorlands Dorito graced the stressage arenas. I have long since abandoned my stressage name — Boglands Quaver — having favoured the eventing world, rather than prancing about like a feathered reject from the Royal Ballet, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still throw some shapes. And throw them I did. By the time we were on lap number two, I was jogging sideways like Boris Johnson’s fitness trainer as the PM dodges yet another question involving eyesight tests…
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In conclusion diary, I am a long way from broken, Herman the German actually did earn his veterinary degree rather than find it in a cereal box as mother may have insinuated before, and I’d like to suggest that before she consigns her slightly aged but maturing like fine wine horse to a premature jaunt over the rainbow bridge, that the mothership takes a long hard look in the mirror (with her glasses on because unlike me she’s pretty much blind in BOTH eyes). The woman only carries a donor card to make herself believe that someone wants her body — and even then I suggest that they’d be hard pushed to find any bits they could use.
Laters,
No-longer Hobbling Hovis
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