Dear diary,
So, the fightback starts again. Four times now I have gone to the brink, four times I have looked (almost literally) down the barrel of the last bang I will ever hear and four times I have fought back. I am cat-like in my nine-life approach to existence which I personally view as a massive plus on my character and which mother views as ulcer-causing, bank balance-draining, causation of high stress levels…
On Friday, Cool New Shoes Man rocked up and my screws were loosened for the final time — which is more than can be said for mother’s, whose screws are permanently loose. The big, clunky plate which so foiled any attempts at subtle sneaking by sounding like Big Ben’s gongs every time my foot hit the ground was confined to the scrap heap — again a lot like mother really — and then the prodigy of podiatry, the talent of tootsies, the dude who puts cool into shoes got to work. There are brief, fleeting moments when I do think that mother has a great gift for picking my support team to be the crème de la crème of their trade, then I remember that a) she chose Herman the German Needle Man and b) CNSM sticks his tongue up my nose on a regular basis and thus desist from my over-generous ponderings…
Anyway, CNSM was accompanied by one of his foreign students who looked thoroughly overwhelmed by being in the company of greatness — and let’s face it, who can blame him? Well, either that or he was terrified of mother who was verbally eviscerating some poor unfortunate on a conference call within earshot at the time. He was also looking for sympathy for a clearly badly damaged hand — CNSM not the student — which to be fair, he’d got as much chance of getting from mother as Scrooge picking up the Christmas party bill. A snowman has more chance of getting a suntan than you have of getting an inch of anything like compassion from she-who-eats-her-prey-alive-and-enjoys-it. If she had any more heart she’d be a vampire, as was witnessed the following day when she left me in a field in the rain while she took mini-mother and the bijou black and white buffoon for a hack around the block. In the RAIN.
Anyway, back to the important topic. Me. And my foot.
So CNSM fitted me with a hand-made, bespoke shoe, complete with small plate to cover the south entrance of the great hole of Hovis. He then filled the front of the cavern with some magic stuff, packed it and then filled it in. I will just about forgive him for wrapping my foot in clingfilm while I “air dried” like some sort of feathery, pottery piece, but I will not forgive him for the pink dental impression stuff he used to ensure no nasties could get under the plate underneath. PINK? I honestly thought the man was on my side, but clearly not. I did pay him back by leaning on him à la Tower of Pisa stylee and watched him trying to act like he wasn’t blowing harder than an overweight asthmatic at a spin class, holding up 0.75T of muscled equine magnificence. Pink indeed…
In no small part due to his mastery of the finer art of farriery, I am now allowed to have a portion of field that might be described optimistically by estate agents as “in keeping with the house” — if you lived in a shoe box — but at least one big enough to be able to turn around without one’s rear end being the untimely recipient of 20,000 volts every time. My bum fluff is most relieved.
We’ve got a long long way to go but #fightbacknumberfour is well underway, meaning that I might just get down to Windsor with mother being the only one of us who is broken.
Article continues below…
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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘any cat swinging in this space would have you up on animal cruelty charges’
Hovis is free at last, but it’s far from roomy
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For those of you who have already pledged to come and see me, then I’ll see you all there, for the rest of you, then I hope you can make it; I understand that security will be high, which is only fitting — after all HRH is a world-famous British export and much be protected. His Royal Hovis that is of course ?
Laters,
Hovis
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