Dear diary,
Oh lord, help me – my mother now thinks she’s maverick, when quite honestly, the rest of us know she’s goosed. Some total idiot, erstwhile known as her rather enabling other half, bought them both a Top Gun experience, which seems to have involved two very, very brave individuals sitting alongside each of them in a plane and then allowing my mother to take control and chase the other plane through the skies, while trying to shoot the other half of the partnership out of the sky.
I can only assume said pilots are either paid a LOT of money or have some sort of death wish – you see I have had my mother as a pilot for 17 years and I can assure you throughout that time she either had her eyes closed or was having a crisis over her lack of navigational capabilities; the woman can’t guess which way a lift is going with two attempts, let alone know her left and right. We once got eliminated in a walk and trot test for going the wrong way – and we hadn’t even got to the trotting bit. Her best friend makes her hold out which hand she means when she says either left or right – a move I’m sure born of 30+ year of friendship and more navigational mistakes than the Titanic…
After doing the loop the loop all afternoon, mother and her sadly defeated other half (why anyone was surprised that my mother turns into a raving psycho at the first hint of competition, I have no idea) then shot off to Madrid, which I sadly misheard and got all excited. Sadly, it was not the ridding me of my Ma, but some Spanish city where she was hobnobbing with some other unfortunates who no doubt were subjected to minute-by-minute replays of her Biggles-like brilliance.
This meant I did at least get a few days of peace and quiet before I had to put up with it myself – I will be pointing out that every time I have requested a fly by, I have been refused, so once again she is demonstrating a level of discrimination which is only matched by the current size of her ego (did I mention she won? Trust me she will have done…).
I did of course still have to have my weekly sojourn with Crazy New Boss Lady, but I have come to expect nothing less. Huge Heffner was surrounded by playful bunny ladies – I am surrounded by la-la lemming ladies, who frankly would make Darwin himself question his theory. If ever there was proof needed of a shallow end to the gene pool, then the women in my life would provide it in spades – and frankly the lifeguard needs shooting…
Taking of shallow end of the gene pool, Barbie Buoy (see what I did there – badda bish!) is currently causing concern as he turns his nose up at his hay. What irks me (almost as much as his mere existence) is the fuss everyone is making about changing his hay and trying to entice him. When it’s me it’s a whole different story – it’s always been eat what you’re given or starve, and trust me, you only have to see the pitiful size of me to know how close starvation has come on many an occasion. Yet another example of how the pint-sized pain in the posterior is pandered to like a pampered princess, whereas I am treated like a Clydesdale commoner – featherism is still so rife.
Anyways, I am off to try and create ear plugs with grass, mud and a smattering of shed buttock hair to drown out the sounds of mother whittering on about her flying prowess (the unkind among us could point out her flying isn’t the issue – it’s the landings she’s got to work on after the broken face of only a few weeks ago, but that would require a level of bravery I don’t have).
Laters,
Hovis
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