Dear diary,
Lord knows if this is going to even read as English; mother is a drugged up fruit loop at the moment and making about as much sense as a TOWIE cast member at a spelling bee. For those who don’t know, she had major surgery on her back (seven-and-a-half hour’s worth) to put in a load of metal work into her spine. She is now officially the bionic blubbership. In the process, they have damaged nerves into her left leg so she now can’t lift her left leg, so can’t drive and has to have her leg lifted into the car and such, like some sort of aged grandma. Apparently her attempting to get out of the bath has resulted in Greenpeace’s experts in beached whales being called and the fire brigade asking if they can use her to practice rescuing cows from ditches.
She appeared at the yard at the weekend like some sort of hobbling ghost with a colour so bad, even B&Q wouldn’t offer to be able to match it. I was only allowed to give her a kiss over my door as she’s not allowed to be pushed about, bent, twisted, lifted, nor basically do anything. Right now, it’s fair to say as a human being, she’s about as much use as boobies on a fish and as such, she’s more frustrated than a caged cat in a sardine factory. She’s feeling very, very sorry for herself, so I licked and kissed her lovingly, then spat my tea in her hair to cheer her up. It was the least I could do.
Talking of help the aged, it was Cool New Shoes Man’s half century last week. The big five-O. There are trees less old than he is. The only thing I am sure gives him comfort is that while he is officially ancient, he has had the pleasure of shoeing me for 18 of those long years, which is a privilege afforded to very few. I would have thought after all those years that he wouldn’t get as breathlessly excited when he’s close to me and I lean all my weight in for a cuddle, but he does. I am starting to ponder if its less he’s excited and more he’s exhausted though? I mean at his age I’m guessing that between the bladder and boy parts, lifting anything more than his cocoa at night and his knee rug might be a stretch. I shall bear that in mind next time he comes to shoe me and consult the “help the aged farrier” handbook.
Apparently he has a big party tomorrow night, which I’m not invited to, but limpy leg is. I have asked metal mother to pass on my regards and then kick him in the shin for not inviting me.
In other news, time is running out to win my adorable, much cheaper to keep (according to sick note anyway) handmade friend Hamish. He came with me to Your Horse is Alive and hung out with me and my celeb mates and is a true one off. Helen who made him, told robo-girl that she spent hours studying photos of me rearing to make sure she got the pattern of my belly markings just right. I would like to point out at this juncture, I don’t rear. I merely have to take two feet off the ground to gesticulate wildly at mother when she’s either heading the wrong way or I spot the Red Arrows above and I wish to wave…
Anyways, please do head to my Facebook page to see details of how to win my crocheted doppelganger – tickets only cost a pound (other currency options are available for those readers in the USA or Europe) and all the money goes to Bransby Horses.
The same of course is true of my new book, Hovis’ Friday Diary: What’s The Story Medal Glory which is a) hilarious b) guilt-free shopping, as all the money goes to charity and c) make the BEST present for the horse mad person in your life. Come on head to www.bransbyhorses.co.uk and buy the book exclusively in their online shop. They will ship anywhere in the world if you ask them nicely, so please do support us.
Anyways, hopefully my drugged up secretary has managed to translate this into something resembling English – she was slurring that badly the other day she sounded like Sylvester Stallone playing Rocky after he’d been belted in the face by some big dude with a mean right hook.
I’m off to try and will the raffle money up to £1,000 because I like a good round number and think about my preparations ahead of Kissmuss.
Laters,
Hovis
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