Dear diary,
So that time of year is here again when the nights are getting shorter, the mornings lighter and the words “ducking fresh” are heard (often from between gritted teeth) by horse owning humans across the land.
I feel that this once again highlights the lack of basic understanding on Darwin’s theory of evolution among the human herds. It’s not us being “ducking fresh” as we piaffe past the village green, sending small children and possibly the local vicar diving for cover, but instead an athletic avoidance of the incoming army of yellow perils that Beryl from the WI has seen fit to plant to try and wrestle “village in bloom” from local rivals.
It’s not us being “ducking fresh” when we leap sideways across the bridle path with a grace and velocity not seen since Torvil and Dean danced Bolero, but instead a lightening reaction save our innocent eyes from the sheep sh***ing sheepishly next to the public right of way sign.
It’s not us being “ducking fresh” when we execute a series of one-time changes, that the mothership could only dream of reproducing in a stressage arena, upon the sight of a field full of clouds with legs that seem to be reproducing faster than the aforementioned rabbit militia. It instead is the outlet of our love of lambs expressed through the medium of dance.
Let’s be honest, everything is either in bloom, springing or bonking so why can’t we have a little bounce to our step? But no, we are changed to our “please god give me some brakes” bits, subjected to the sight of mother’s arse in sticky bum jodphurs and instantly stripped back to a diet which resembles that of a stick insect on hunger strike.
Once again, we are the subject of massive discrimination, and while I manfully do restrain myself, you have to remember that in terms of bounce per ounce, I have a lot of ounces…
On-the-whole, I managed to control myself when crazy new boss lady once again decided this week that hacking alone without any form of sacrificial offering was a sensible idea. Clearly she doesn’t understand the hierarchy of hacking and I despair of her learning this before good old Darwin kicks in. I thought EVERYONE knew that you always hack out with ideally a) someone slower than you so when you spin and sod off there’s at least one left at the back to feed the beast; b) someone smaller such that you can shove them towards whatever menace is looming with a crafty polo-esque shoulder in and c) a rider who as a last option you can fling out of the emergency exit, sans parachute, into the jaws of death while you leg it back to the yard a-la a large scale Lassie claiming some horrific “accident” blamed upon an innate lack of talent from the mothership…
I am going to start a campaign to make this learning mandatory — sort of like a Hovis Hacking certificate – but in the meantime, I think it’s incumbent upon us all to protect our equestrian lemmings from extinction. Crazy boss lady does make this hard as this week’s idiocy included walking past a hedge hiding hitman whom she claimed was merely “trimming his bush” – I am sorry but you say topiary, I say treachery. We did have a brief “discussion” on the subject of perhaps going a different way but her inner thigh is stronger than mother’s grip on the biscuit barrel, so I stood a cheese puff’s chance at a fat fighter convention.
I have survived another week and no doubt will have to put up with the mothership’s maiden flight post her aborted landing from another horse three weeks ago this weekend, so it’s fair to say I am mulling over my life choices just now.
Laters,
Hovis
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