Dear diary,
My God. Who on earth has turned up the thermostat?! I’m melting! I’m a melting hunk of manliness formally known as Hovis. It’s got so hot that Aunty H is bringing Dolly and I in during the day to avoid us being fired alive and then turning us back out at night (the boss lady is still away and boy, how I love being looked after by Aunty H – it’s carrot central).
This has meant that I get the indescribable joy of rubbing my tail and mane against the cold brick of my stable walls – and Aunty H has the indescribable joy of trying to comb said hairballs at the end of the day. She loves it – no really she does.
The weekend was so hot that even mother relented and only made me do 20 minutes worth of stressage before admitting defeat – I’m not sure who was sweating more to be honest, her or me. She did give me a lovely cool shower and did stick her own head under it which briefly led me to fantasise about drowning her in a bucket for even thinking of doing work in 100 degree heat. She’s a sadist.
I did 10 minutes on the lunge the following day, executed some impressive transitions and then sweated like a fat man in a sauna so again, all attempts were aborted.
Mum has reportedly given up on working me until the weather calms down so maybe this ridiculous heat has its advantages.
I heard through the grapevine though that granny has been saying on my Facebook pages that she’s going to ride me when she’s over in August. Really? She’s about 2ft tall with legs the length of mini-mother’s? There is a view that mother could be trying to get her inheritance early but I am suspecting she will be able to sell tickets. Certainly the photos might be worth a giggle.
Apparently a lovely French girl is coming to live with mother and dad soon to help look after mini-mother and she rides too. Between her, Aunty Emily and mother – not to mention visits from Aunty Becky – I am going to be worked down to the size of a Shetland. What have I done to deserve this? I’m a nice person, I don’t bite anyone, have only buried mother into the deck a few times, raise loads of money for those less fortunate than me (and I still don’t see how anyone can be less fortunate than me) and lovingly look after mini-mother. Why do the women in my life feel the need to work me to death? I need rescuing. Really I do. I’m hoping when at Your Horse is Alive that I can find myself a new mum or dad to be honest. That Geoff bloke looks a dude so maybe I can convince him that feather power is the way to go? I’m still holding out for the call from William Fox-in-a-hole but hope is fading faster than my waist line…
In other news, mother is about to announce the title of my new book – stay tuned to my Facebook pages for exclusive reveals over the coming days.
Like this? You might also enjoy reading these:
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I am not a filthy, feral, feathered fool’
Hovis’ Friday Diary: I think Team GB has forgotten to invite its secret weapon
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I can finally announce my big news!’
So I’m off to swelter some more, rub my tail to the extent chimney sweeps could use it to earn some serious money and rearrange my mane to “punk rock meets startled hedgehog” status. If only to see Aunty H’s look of joy.
Laters,
Hovis
