Dear Diary
What a few weeks it has been with the death of our Queen causing the country to go into a period of national mourning. I wasn’t allowed to watch the funeral as mother apparently had concerns about my ability not to decimate her lounge furniture with my derriere, which coming from a woman who causes a total eclipse if she bends over whilst poo picking, is richer than Jeff Bezos ex-wife…
Anyway, I understand it was fiercely moving and absolutely fitting for our beloved monarch – showcasing the very best of what it means to be British with lots of equine involvement from the cavalry as well as the Queen’s pony, Emma; which, because you are all bonkers, seems to have upset more of you weird horse mothers than anything else. I think it was beautiful, but mother was swift to point out the only involvement I would have in her funeral is to be the reason that it was taking place. Which was very hurtful, if possibly true…
On the Sunday before the funeral mother and mini-mother came for what has now become a ritual of riding together in which mother endeavours to not allow me to flatten Barbie Boy and I endeavour to boot the bijou blonde up the bum in a seemingly non-premeditated “trip” So far mother is winning in our war of wills, but my time will come… of that I am sure.
To be fair, as mother nature has overnight gone as frosty an extra from Disney on Ice, I was a bit stiff as I do have various bits of my stunning physique minorly marred by arthritis. Can I just point out though that I’m 20 years old and have had to carry mother (literally and figuratively) for 16 years so a bit of joint wear and tear is hardly unexpected – I’ve been over my axel weight since her infamous
fall out with the scales of 2010…
Anyway, I did come in from the field a little more slowly than usual and thus, when she asked me to pick up my feet for them to be picked out, did struggle a little with my balance resulting in me accidentally kicking mother’s thigh a few times. Which is the official line and I’m sticking to it with the ferocity of a Kardashian to a prenup.
In reality she was moving slower than a tortoise on Prozac and I thought a quick poke or two might hurry things up a tad. As a result mother’s thigh looks like an over-weight Dalmatian after a Friday night out in Newcastle. Which added to the fact that some sort of insect decided that out of the choices of her or me that he preferred chicken to prime beefcake and chowed down on her like a fat fighter at Greggs. Her woeful pictures garnered her some semblance of pity from the more kind-hearted of you, but I will be honest it amused me immensely.
I wasn’t quite so amused with being restricted to poncing about the school like some sort of beginners’ riding school mount whilst Barbie hurtled around on the wrong leg with about as much talent as a TOWIE cast member doing pantomime, but apparently mother “was taking no chances”. Which is code for she’s not really keen on seeing Herman the German Needle Man at the minute. At a rough guess either she’s out of favour with her bank manager or lives in fear of Herman euthanising her on humane grounds on sight. I do feel slightly concerned I haven’t seen Herman in so long – I’m not sure if his swimming pool is due re-tiling this year or next…
Anyway I’m off to start sorting my life out for Your Horse is Alive – more details to follow in coming weeks.
Laters,
Hovis
