Dear diary,
Right! Own up! Who in all creation has annoyed her upstairs again?! She’s suddenly turned frostier than mother when anyone suggests she’s looking “show ready” and has sent more white stuff our way than at a Happy Mondays after-show party in the 80’s…
One minute it’s all spring sunshine and bonking bunnies and the next it’s sideways blizzards and temperatures colder than she-who-must-be-obeyed’s heart. If ever it crosses your mind to question as to whether Mother Nature is an actual card-carrying female, then her ability to go from frisky to frosty should make it clear – trust me, as a man who has monumentally misread mares’ moods, nothing can switch settings faster than a female…
It’s fair to say I have spent the past few days with my eyes closed and my rug blowing up my bum crack like the wind up the M1. Fun it is not.
Even less fun was what went up my bum last Friday afternoon… a human hand. A hand attached to Herman the German Needle Man. who popped by to molest me on mother’s request after crazy new boss lady had heard me cough. I mean like really? Mother can wander around barking like a stressed seal, spluttering germs like some sort of human horror hose and I don’t see anyone sticking anything up her rear end (although to be fair, that would take a seriously, seriously brave individual). On the other hand, I cough a couple of times and before you can say “halls”, Herman is hand deep up my Heinie (other cough sweets are available – and I’m hoping other less handsy vets…).
The net result of his assault on my ass, was he doesn’t think I have an infection but am “irritated”. Mate, have someone walk up to you in a field and penetrate your posterior and I can absolutely guarantee “irritated” is the mild version of what you would be feeling. Especially when they don’t so much as buy you dinner first. I am always aware that mother infers Herman got his medical degree out of a cornflakes packet and usually I defend the poor man, but frankly when he doesn’t know which end a cough comes out of, I’m starting to think she might have a point. Anyways, I have been put on the good stuff, which tends to stick to my nose and make me look like I have a penchant for Columbian marching powder, but it should apparently stop me sounding like I smoke 50 a day behind the hay shed. Mother, in the meantime, was last seen sobbing about how her only hope of a holiday was now being snorted by “her self-centred, self-harming senior soul sucking sabino sadist” – which was confusing because I was pretty sure the only place the powder was going was up my snoozle and that cap just don’t fit? Mind you, mother is now getting to an age where she walks into a room and can’t remember what she’s doing there. She spent five minutes the other day rooted in my tack room – apparently due to me blocking her getting out, but in reality I think she forgot what she went in there for. Like I have said before – mum’s like a pair of children’s safety scissors, looks bright enough but in reality isn’t that sharp…
Anyway, she’s off to Mum-bye for the first time in a few years (this human strangles thing prevented inter-herd mixing for such a long time), so I’m looking forward to a quieter week where at least I am saved from one of her “brain waves”. I have told her until I’m sick of telling her – she’s not qualified for those…
I’m off to shelter in the barn from the snow and keep a sharp eye open for signs of hyperthermia among my female barn mates. I know. I am a hero. You don’t need to tell me.
Laters,
Hovis
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