Dear diary,
I think my mother has lost the plot. Again. In fact I’m not sure to be honest if she has ever had the plot, or if she was actually born without one. Either way the woman is madder than a box of frogs on a bouncy castle.
At the weekend they came to top all the fields. With a great big evil machine. Did I mention it was BIG? I regarded it aloofly from within the safety of my field and carried on eating, at the time watching its treacherous tractor tendencies; one can’t be too careful. All was ok — not well but ok.
That was until mother turned up and took it upon herself to walk me out past said evil machine and to the yard where upon she decided we were going to do some work. Which would have been ok if the topping tractor thing hadn’t have been right next to the school by this point.
There may have been some squealing, a bit of bucking and a lot of sweat but eventually mother settled down and allowed me to lunge freely. Well when I say “freely” I mean “run like hell past the tractor and then dawdle round the second half of the circle so as not to get back to it too quickly” and repeat. And repeat again. And so forth.
I can’t say either of us enjoyed ourselves, were both drenched in sweat and possibly considering murder. Or maybe that was just me?
After mother eventually decided that enough was enough I was hauled back into the barn for a wash off and a bath of my legs — something I’m supposed to be grateful for. Grateful? The witch uses ice cold water and a scrubbing brush. I’d like to see you lot being grateful if she set about your appendages with the enthusiasm of a fat man licking the inside of a cake mixing bowl. By the time she’d finished I was clean. Cold but clean.
I made a mental note to roll as soon as I got to the field, briefly fantasised about subjecting mother to cold water training at the next opportune moment and allowed the weird woman to walk me back to the field. She did at least give me a semi-decent dinner so there were some up sides. Not many mind you.
In the week aunty Emily has rode me which is fab but I do need to figure a way to stop the girl snitching to mum like the local teacher’s pet. So I might have got a bit acrobatic the other day, I may have leapt and ducked and dived like a dolphin with a nervous twitch but was there any need for her to tell mother? And as for claiming I bucked and passed wind — well that’s just a blatant lie. It was Dolly. And that’s the story I’m sticking to.
So I will at least get a peaceful weekend as mother, aunty Becky, mum’s brother and her friend Monty as all doing this silly airfield anarchy thing. It’s like the human equivalent of a cross-country course with loads of things to jump over, crawl under, climb, swing and slither about on. There’s more mud there than the corner of my field and it’s a long long way. I know she’s doing it all for charity which is amazing but really someone needs to tell mother she has neither the body nor the mind of a 20-year-old any more and is pretty much past it.
Continued below…
Read more from Hovis:
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘There was so much of me on the floor that mini-mother thought it was a dog’
Hovis’ Friday diary: A back end with a mind of its own
Hovis’ Friday diary: needles and stressage – life sucks
The good news is it’s a safe bet she won’t be able to walk the next day but I have heard her say that Monty wants to ride me. Now you have to bear in mind that last time Monty and I met he put my saddle on the wrong way around and then was heard asking where the brakes were as mother waved us off in horrified silence. Apparently he has improved since then and is about to go off and do some funny coloured letter day thing involving horseback combat. If he wanted to see horseback combat he should try riding around the local village with mum and Aunty H on car boot Sunday. I bet that would cost a lot less cash and be far more combative…
Anyways, I shall go and enjoy the peace and quiet and await news of whether mother is in traction for the rest on the summer.
Laters,
Hovis
