Dear diary,
If you ever ever wanted proof that Mother Nature is indeed a woman, then her response to my diary last week just about gives as cast iron evidence as you will ever need. So, ok, I *might* have had a bit of a moan about the non-consensual waterboarding that was occurring every time we so much as stepped outside the barn. And I *might* have indicated that the renamed Barbie Buoy was in need of a flotation device, but really? I mean really? Was there any need to “help” by freezing said water? We have literally gone from synchronised swimming to prancing on ice faster than mother can verbalise every swear word she knows. And she knows a lot. And is like really, really fast at yelling them. Usually at me but that’s not really relevant here.
The point is, what happened to slowly easing us into yet another change of direction on the seasons issue? Honestly, the only thing that’s changed as fast recently is the name of the human herd leader, and even that you could see coming a mile off. This was like poof! One minute I’m seriously considering buying a dinghy for my danglies and the next minute I’m having to issue an ABP as they’ve fled into my man parts cave faster than the world’s most wanted. To be frank, the only way I am going for a wee at the moment is if someone goes up there with a hot water bottle and a carrot to coax him out – forget brass monkeys’ bits, I think mine have frozen off…
If it’s not bad enough that Mother Nature is refusing to ‘Let It Go’, my mother continues to be an evil witch who is trying to starve me into the size of a Shetland. And it’s not just me who thinks so.
The other day, the new yard boss lady stuck her head over the door while I was enduring a mother “pampering session” and asked if mother was happy with my weight. Now, to be fair she trod more carefully than a barefoot warrior in a Lego factory, but to my ears she was making it more than clear she thinks I look like a malnourished neglect case.
Which is why I like her.
Alas, with mother subtlety is about as useful as a cactus as a condom mould and so it was ignored in the same way as the numbers on the scales. Apparently, mother “likes to see me coming out of winter on the lean side” – I could say the same, mother, but last time that happened in your case, the UK only had three TV channels…
I have since heard that mother has also requested that I am exercised by said boss lady once a week, which fills me with a degree of dread – by all accounts said lady is a very good rider, which doesn’t bode well for me being able to deploy any of my usual arsenal of tricks to avoid carrying my own head/doing anything other than a decent impression of a llama/asking for all aids to be given in braille. On the other hand, I equally could use it as yet another opportunity to showcase what a loss I have been to all the GB equestrian teams as my brilliance has been held back by a talentless, tow-head-headed twerp for the best part of 16 years. As I have always consistently said, if talent were petrol mother couldn’t manage to power a moped one circuit around a fruit loop…
Anyway, I am off to shiver pathetically in the vain hope that either the boss feeds me or that crazy Daisy offers no rugs nakedness for the purposes of hypothermia treatment.
Laters,
Hovis
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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Forget the Ark – I need a chuffing submarine’
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