Dear diary,
Well by the time you read this I’ll be on my way to the cult Your Horse is Alive, travelling in my borrowed executive transport (thanks Aunty Sarah) ready to meet my fans, hob-nob with the stars and hopefully run away with Mary King…
So it’s been a mixed bag of a week; it’s fair to say at the weekend I blotted my copy book so firmly it could have been used as one of those funny pattern books they use to ascertain is you’re a bit of a loony tune.
Mum had taken me into the school to do some walk work as until Herman comes later today that’s still all I’m allowed to do. Since I’d nearly flattened her in the field by tearing down to see her, swerving and charging off in the opposite direction it’s fair to say we were already not on the best of terms. And that’s before I mention the brief skip I might have done in her direction as we left the field.
I feel calling it a “rear” (as unsurprisingly mother “drama queen” Thompson did) was a little unfair. My feet may have briefly left the floor but only by a fraction, I swear…
Within five minutes of being in the school I think we both accepted there was only one way this was going to end. I was full of beans and to be honest felt this walking malarkey was a complete waste of time.
Herman may disagree with me later and to be fair if he does the chances of me making it to Your Horse Live as anything other than a large piece of taxidermy may be unlikely…
Mother got off me and decided that long lining me might be a good idea. She’d just started to get me sorted when I decided enough was enough and took off around the school like that Spankel dude used to run the final furlong.
I felt GREAT! Mothers insistent “whoa”’s were just a mere murmur in the wind as I channelled my inner racehorse and powered around the school, displaying gymnastics those Spanish riding school hombres can only dream of.
To be honest my athletic capability blew my brains. I think it’s fair to say my mother did a lot of questioning whether I have any brains at all whilst alternatively sobbing at the thought of the money she’s just spent trying to get me right.
I tried to get her to see that clearly it was money very well spent as I haven’t felt this good in ages but I think with hindsight demonstrating how high I can get my back feet off the ground was probably not the best communication tool I could have used.
Needless to say when I finally decided that mother was getting quite insistent about the “whoa”-ing I’d better stop. I was lathered in sweat and feeling good. Mother called me rude names and then spent an hour trying to dry me off. She loves me really. I think…
Anyway on Tuesday Aunty Alison gave me a new haircut ready for this weekend and once again I have been transformed from a manly deep mahogany (I am NOT ginger) into a baby seal-esque picture of cuteness. I HATE this time of year.
Why I cannot look all manly and shiny when I’m clipped is yet again a mystery. Instead I look like a four legged advert for Green Peace which no doubt will have all the female fans making more cooing noises than a pigeon gathering at the weekend. If only it worked on the mares.
I am ever hopeful of some horizontal half pass with one of Mr Hester’s posh mares but looking like a seal cub makes the likelihood slimmer than Aunty Becky’s left leg…
Aunty Becky rode me yesterday and did report back to mum that a) I behaved and b) I felt great. As I’ve not yet seen my fire-breathing matriarch I’m not sure if this will have appeased her. We shall see.
So I really really hope to see lots of you over the weekend, come and say Hello, bring polos, sneak them to me when eagle-eyes-kill-joy-knickers isn’t watching, give me a cuddle and put in a good word for me with the posh eventing people that will be there.
Surely this is my chance to convince one of them to take me to Burghley next year?
See you all there.
Laters,
Hovis
