Dear diary,
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
I am so in the bad books with the women in my life that I may never recover. The words that have been used to describe me this week would make a sailor blush and I’m pretty sure my entire genetic ancestry has been equally slighted.
Upsetting mum is bad enough but upsetting aunty Emily means I not only get told off by her but equally by mother who insists that “good sharers to do not grow on trees”. No mother, most things grow in the ground – which is where I nearly put Aunty Emily earlier in the week. Oopppssss.
It’s fair to say I’m feeling well at the moment and I demonstrated this at the weekend when mother worked me, giving her upwards transitions at a speed that even Spankel’s offspring couldn’t obtain after a night on the oats and with a favourable wind. I was on fire baby! Well my ears were burning if that counts?
I think even those with the emotional intelligence of a block of Portland cement would have been able to detect mothers irritation at my constant desire to show her that despite my size I am in fact, part racehorse. Talking of which; when am I getting an invite to race against other heavies? Seriously people! I am a crowd magnet — plus the vibrations caused by my hooves will have the entire east coast on tsunami watch for at least six weeks…
Anyway so back to my point. Mother wasn’t best happy with me but by the end of the weekend was basking in the glow of believing she had won the battle and restrained my natural athletics and Tigger-like tendencies. Alas mother, you’re not that good.
Cue then Aunty Emily getting back in the saddle after a few weeks on holiday. I was very pleased to see her. I loves my aunty Emily, she’s lovely. I thought unlike my witch of a mother she might at least appreciate the fact that I am like Zebedee on springs, like Tigger on speed, like a bouncy ball in the hands of a toddler after a packet of blue smarties.
Alas she didn’t.
Apparently my lack of co-ordination of my feet combined with a back end with “a mind of its own” nearly caused a rider dismount. I thought she was just cuddling me enthusiastically when really she was clinging on like a limpet in a riptide — who knew?!
It was made worse because she told mother of my performance who by all accounts was in equal parts mortified and horrified. I sense a lot of schooling in my immediate future and a lot of transitions mainly of the downward variety…
Mind you I probably need to be nice to mum as it was three years ago this week that we said goodbye to my older brother Sid. He was a 17.2hh black menace but mum and dad loved him lots so she was quite sad.
Continued below…
Read more from Hovis:
Hovis’ Friday diary: needles and stressage – life sucks
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I have come to the conclusion that every woman in my life is a demanding wench’
Hovis’ Friday diary: bidding you farewell
For those of you who asked about the poems I wrote for him, and other friends I have lost, they can all be found in my books: Hovis’ Friday diary: From the Beginning, Hovis’ Friday Diary: the Year of the Destroyer, Hovis’ Friday Diary: Fifty Tastes of Hay and Hovis’ Friday Diary: The Fast and the Feathery. I’m sure you all know that they are sold with 100% of the money going to the equine charity Bransby Horses; if you don’t know then where have you BEEN?! They can be obtained from the online shop at www.bransbyhorses.co.uk
So I’m off to try and curb my enthusiasm, wait for Herman the German Needle Man to turn up and shove more needles into my neck and generally grovel to Aunty Emily and mum.
Laters,
Yours Sheepishly,
Hovis
