Dear diary,
A quiet week this week as the blubbership has been out partying in Las Vegas apparently having found a few pence that the Barbie-fied bimbette and I haven’t managed to offload onto Herman the German Needle Man/Cool New Shoes Man/Evil Army Man/Miss Pokey fingers the physio/the willie washer or the cool rainbow haired hairdresser lady*.
*Delete as appropriate, although to be fair, I am a equal opportunist so have tried to spread mother’s money around all of them as best I can – apart from the willie washer as frankly that’s wrong on more levels than an elevator in a brothel…
To ensure that mother knows I am still alive and thus their services are being well utilised, yard owner Mr B has taken to taking arty sunset photos of me and mailing them to mother, usually from a wildly unflattering angle, which makes me look like a donkey. And a pregnant one at that. This in turn then gets mother to worry that I might be beating her in the cannibals’ “most desirable for dessert” category (although to be fair, with her backside, I think she’s much better off in the “could feed a family of four for a month” category) and thus stick me on even more of a diet than I’m normally on.
I mean the irony of this is not lost – mother has been on a diet most of the 17 years I have been saddled with her, but in her case it’s a see food diet. And no that’s not a typo…
Mind you, none of this is helped when Aunty H reported to mother that her husband Mr H had come back from the local village recently and reported seeing a “very large horse with a very wide bottom” on the roads. When probed as to whether said horse had feathers, he was less sure but did confirm that its legs “were hairy”. When asked about the rider, the damning comment was that while the horse had a large derriere, the rider didn’t. Thus with ease Aunty H deduced that Mr H had indeed seen myself and Crazy Boss Lady out for a hack and not my mother. Now once I got past the indignation of being described as a very large horse (which is true) with a very wide bottom (rear wheel drive engines of my size do look large to the uneducated), I did reflect on the fact that the rider was more easily identifiable from behind. It’s fair to say that CBL is a very slim athletic individual, fit and highly suited to our sport and its required attire. Whereas mother is none of those things and resembles an over stuffed sausage in jodhpurs…
I’m thus off to ponder the inequalities of how I can be kept as a lean, mean racing snake way into my dotage, starved “for my own good”, on a never ending diet to protect my legs/feet/mother’s bank balance while my mother is allowed to require Vaseline and a lot of determination to get into her riding gear, has hips that open more slowly than Tower Bridge and an arse which should (and could) carry a wide load sticker. I’m pretty sure that there’s another one of my famous (and let’s be honest, not entirely successful) campaigns in here somewhere, perhaps #nofattiesonheavies but I’m not that brave. Perhaps one of you could step up here?
Laters,
Hovis
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