Dear diary,
Ok, fess up. Who has upset her?
And no, I don’t mean the mothership – let’s face it, it’s easier to upset mother than spot a Kardashian photoshop – I mean Mother Nature. Because lord above, that woman has suddenly gone colder than Olaf’s underpants. It’s APRIL. Like supposedly spring; you know flowers, frolicking and friskiness NOT frost! Forget not knowing if I’m coming or going, this is more I don’t know whether I’m supposed to be growing hair or shedding hair, which for a man of my age is a much more fundamental question.
This sudden and frankly undesired cold snap has meant that much muttering has been done by the mothership about rugs, rug washing and the least favourite of her subjects – rug trashing. Which I think is the expression humans use when your rugs unexplainably disintegrate while upon your personages – something that has happened to a couple of mine of late. Like UFOs, crop circles and how mother isn’t a size six, the inner workings of this anomaly remain a steadfast mystery, but judging by the swearing I don’t think mother was pleased. Although if we are applying the “number of times mother swears” as a leading KPI to the “number of times mother isn’t happy” then that woman needs some happy pills – in an industrial-sized order. There are Irish marines who would have new words to add to their vocabulary within the first hour of meeting her…
Anyways, since my rug wardrobe was busy disintegrating (I’m thinking moths?) and mother has zero money and not much of a body to sell literally nor figuratively to her bank manager, then second hoof rugs were apparently the order of the day. Cue Aunty H turning up like an equine Gok Wan with ams full of rugs for me to try on and for mother to pay reduced rates for thus solving both mother’s lack of sellable organs and Aunty H’s lack of space in the garage.
I was fine with all the offerings until we got to one which was such a bittersweet moment. It was an old rug, one that Aunty H didn’t want any money for, but she’d wanted me to have. And one look at the mothership’s face told me why – for it had been my lady love’s. I have such memories of her wearing it I could shut my eyes and see her in it and as I did indeed shut my eyes, I could smell her on it. We all had a cuddle – me, Aunty H and mum, with me wearing that pink and grey rug – and all I can say is there must have been a lot of dust in the barn…
I was crying for another reason earlier this week when the CBL (Crazy Boss Lady) took me out hacking, signalling my holiday was over post-the mauling by the miniature menace. My mouth is all healed up and so operation “Prove Darwin Wrong” was recommenced with us venturing out yet again sans any form of sacrifice/wing person. I honestly don’t know what is wrong with the woman, everyone, even sh*tlands who have done a deal with the devil and thus know they’re immortal, know that going out hacking into the heartlands of the tractors of terror and the worrisome wheelie bins is utter suicide if you go alone without someone to throw in front of said creatures before you about turn and flee for home. I mean, like it’s the rule of life. Always hack with someone slower or at the very least nicer than you are so you have options. Big clue – if you can’t see anyone slower or nicer than you, then you’re the sacrifice. You’re welcome.
Anyways, I’m off to stand shivering in my new rugs while Mother Nature sorts her heating out, while also avoiding being made to hack out anymore this week.
Laters,
Hovis
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