Dear diary,
This week Aunty Em has had a bit of a master class in what one might call fate and the fine art of not tempting it. You see at the weekend she was heard declaring to my impressed looking mother (which says more about mother’s faith in me than it does her view of Aunty Em’s riding) that she had never fallen off me in all the time she’s shared me.
Now an unfair person might have also pointed out the poignant statistics that I’ve probably spent more time out of commission then in commission while Aunty Em has shared me and that therefore this might be nothing more than a statistical law of averages. But none-the-less, the fact did remain that Aunty Em and I had never parted company.
Now the literary savvy ones among you will have noted my very careful use of tense there. This is not just because I am a skilled author and grammar gifted gelding but also because the above mentioned salient fact is now no longer true. What can I say? Clearly fate is not a lady to be tempted.
As parting of company goes it was relatively lame but perhaps made a tad more dramatic by the fact I fell over in the process such that both of us had to pick our derrieres and remains of our pride out of the particles of the school while mini-mother looked on, aghast at the sight of her hero swallowing sand.
So, I could tell you I reacted with laser-like precision to an attack from the rabbit militia, or that my matrix style moves were just too much for Aunty Em. I could tell you that my hip swivel makes Ricky Martin weep with envy and that my partner in the dance of life was left behind. I could even tell you that with my Eurofighter style capabilities, I merely accidentally jettisoned my pilot due to a faulty ejector seat. Or… I could tell you that I fell over my feet while moving up the gears from trot to canter. There! I admit it.
Aunty Em rolled off me one way as I went down and for a split second we were both flat out in the school like two hairy Germans sunbathing on a Majorcan sand dune. I’m blaming the fact that I’ve gone a slightly longer shoeing cycle due to Cool New Shoes Man harnessing his inner MAMIL and bombarding MY Facebook pages with pictures of half-naked farriers in what look like leotards. Mum holds the view that it’s my fault because I’m lazy with my feet and don’t pick them up properly. Seriously, do you blame me? Have you seen the size of them? I would say she has no idea but then have you seen the size of mother‘s airbags? How she ever jogs without it resulting in her permanently looking like a raccoon is beyond me…
Anyway, we both swiftly gained our feet, checking that no one had seen the little “incident” and then made a pact not to tell anyone. Well, I made a pact — Aunty Em texted mum who apparently made several unjustifiable and rather flowery assessments of my parentage and likely IQ. She loves me really.
I think…
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After my announcement last week that I’m once again heading for the cult gathering that is Your Horse is Alive, lots of people have sent lots of questions about other events and fairs etc and whether I’m going or not. Put simply people, I go wherever I am invited; parties, events, gatherings, the opening of new stores, you name it. Mother would turn up to the opening of an envelope let alone a new shop, so we do get about a tad. But only when we’re asked. So, if there’s anything you want me to come to then talk to the management (aka mother).
I’m off to flirt with Dolly and to practise trot to canter transitions that don’t result in a sand abrasion facial.
Laters,
Hovis
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