Dear Diary,
Well that time is nearly upon us again, the greatest literary event since Richard and Whatsherfaces book club, since that big air bagged lady produced her “memoirs” and since some dude called Spot got lost. Yes you’ve guessed it — my next book is about to be launched!
So this finds me on book number four of the series (and yes people, there is a series), picking up where the last one, Hovis’ Friday Diary: Fifty Tastes of Hay, left off.
In it I encounter new friends, old enemies and have some fun with mother. I try to make you laugh, I try to make you cry and if nothing else I hope to make you smile.
For those of you who don’t know, all three of my books raise money for an equestrian charity here in Lincolnshire, with neither me nor mother making a bean of money from any of it. Mum says that it’s good to help people less fortunate than we are and that it will earn us a place in heaven. I asked the American dude what heaven was — he said it was a place with fluffy clouds where everyone wears white and plays harps. I have asked for a refund on that ticket and want a place at the local stud farm with a bevy of fit mares with loose morals, a lot of hay and one of those solarium things instead. Sounds far more up my canter track to be honest…
Anyway in less than 10 days time I unleash my wit, literary talent and blinding brilliance onto the world and mum gets to ponce about as if she wrote it, signing autographs and generally basking in my glory like an aged lizard on a the bonnet of a fine sports car.
She is a mere passenger in this relationship but every time it’s the same — interviews, book signings and photos while I get left at home.
This time she tells me the charity is coming to do an interview with me on film so we shall see — it’s about time people saw the true talent behind the human…
Talking of talent, I continue to wow the world with my ability to do interpretive dance over trotting poles, expressing myself in a modern fashion over the obstacles in a way that shows my inner feelings and frees my inhibitions.
Mother however, being mother, views it as me being a door handle of some size, with the brain of an amoeba after a full lobotomy. I don’t really understand what any of it means but I’m fairly sure from the tone that none of it is a compliment. She is such a grouch bags sometimes. I fail to see why hurdling the poles is such an issue, trotting is SO last year — this is the time of the canter and with a good active canter on approach clearing the aforementioned poles in one bounce is easy. The fact that the force nearly sends mum into the next county is beside the point.
To be fair she has tried to do it with me on a lunge (I nearly whip lashed her into the side of the barn) and under saddle (she did an impromptu mid air ear inspection) and neither went exactly the way she intended. All I can say is a year not jumping + a year not cantering + a snaffle bit + poles = not a chance mother. It’s just maths. And physics. Quite a LOT of physics.
To be fair, mother got her revenge by working me into the ground until I was a sodden heap of sweat and manly pheromones and then bathing me in COLD water. There’s simply no need for it I can tell you. Admittedly I did manage to con her into thinking I wanted a drink, holding a large amount of the aforementioned cold water in my large mouth and then conveniently returning it like a grey water recycling system straight down the back of her neck when she bent down to scrub my feathers. I found it positively hilarious. I’ll be honest: I’m not sure she did…
We were supposed to go out hacking the next day but it was raining sideways and thundering and lightening and no matter how insane my mother is at times she’s not quite that mad.
I did hope briefly for respite in the barn with the radio on and big hay net but mother is taking the stance of “he’s a big horse – he can cope”. She’s a big unit too but I don’t see dad leaving her out in the rain all night and day. Although I’m pretty sure he’s been tempted…
Anyway I’m off to practise my best camera face, prepare my interview material and get ready to accept the accolades from the literary world.
Laters,
Hovis
