Dear Diary
I’m bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored. This return to work thing is SO overrated. So far all it seems to entail is walking, more walking, walking some more, oh and then more walking. Walking is for tortoises, people with piles or dumbblood dressage drama queens – not for Destroyers.
I managed a few strides of trot the other day with Aunty Em and she screamed at me like a banshee on the big dipper. Seriously. I get that mother has threatened all around me with literal death if I so much as twitch a muscle vigorously, but really? It was like three strides at best. And she told mother. And to think we used to be friends.
I was sort of hopeful that I might be making a new friend the other day when the new person to look after mini-mother came up with she-who-must-be-obeyed. She seemed quite lovely and was overcome with meeting me – most people are it seems. Most people apart from mother, but then she is a poofy-haired witch with antifreeze instead of blood.
But then, THEN this nice seeming young lady stood there while mother not only made me WALK around for 30 minutes, but then washed me. In cold water. ALL over. In freezing water. Even on my mane, which in turn made the icy water cascade like a Scottish waterfall down my nose – admittedly only because I wouldn’t keep my head up and kept pushing mum off the little ladder that the short bum has to stand on to wash my mane, but still. She STOOD there, watching horse cruelty two feet away from her and did nothing. Nothing I tell you.
Needless to say despite subsequent attempts to butter me up by telling me I now smelt nice and that I looked lovely, I have not forgiven her. She might be named after a well-known chocolate confectionery, but she sure as hell isn’t getting my last one that’s for sure…
So I was supposed to be seeing Herman the German Needle Man this week to see if I could start trotting a little bit, but he’s stood me up in favour of being a big important vet at some big party this week. He spent the last time he was here practising his “walkie talkie” drills with mother (she pretends she’s ex-Territorial Army, but unless she means combat Barbie I can’t see it myself).
To be honest listening to the pair of them practising “radio speak” was almost as bad as seeing pictures of Cool New Shoes Man in lycra – a little nauseating and very disturbing. So anyway, I’m going to have to wait until next week to find out if I can actually get above walk any time before my 20th birthday…
Continued below…
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In the meantime Herman goes to play with expensive highly strung eventer types, like my mate Mary King, Mr Knickerless and Mr Fox-in-a-hole. He refused to respond to my request to put in a good word with the British eventing team for me and clearly intends to spend his weekend saying “Charlie one over” and “Roger that”. God help them all…
I’m off to hide from mother and the scrubbing brush (apparently silver spray just will not come out of white feather – I think I look cool, mother disagrees) and attempt to get above walk. The excitement might just prove too much for me to handle…
Laters,
Hovis
