Dear Diary
Well, it’s all over – thank god. The season of tinsel terrorism, Santa hat horrors and antler abominations is drawing to a close, but I ask how many of you escaped? Not even I, with my finely attune sense of danger avoidance, athletic prowess and legendary reactions managed to avoid the ritual annual humiliation of being draped in decorations and made to pose for photos.
My mother quite frankly is like a tinsel-wearing terminator – she will NOT stop – and eventually it’s easier to just get it over with. As can be observer from the string of photos she posted, I went from mildly put out to full-on suicidal over the space of said little “photo shoot”, so much so that the last photo does resemble a terminally-depressed Eeyore complete with flat back ears and a “someone please shoot me now” look in my eye. To be fair a “someone shoot mother” look would have been preferable, but I did just want to the suffering to end.
She then added insult to injury by posting a video she took of me as she tried to cosy back up to me a few short minutes later and pretend to be friends again. I was peoples, less than amused. With “friends” like that I sure as heck don’t need enemies…
I was hoping for revenge on Boxing Day if we went for a little hack out, but sadly my uncle Lee was visiting along with the entourage, so we didn’t get to go. We are, however, going out with Aunty H and my lady love this morning (I’m writing this by candlelight on Thursday for you all) so who knows. I may be a total bronco from the moment she gets her substantial rear end near the saddle or lull her into a false sense of security only to spook violently at a blade of grass halfway through our little jaunt. I haven’t decided yet, but revenge will be mine…
So, what did Santa Paws bring you all? I was hoping for a couple of fine fillies, a moral-less mare or two, a week-long break at Casa de King and entry to Badminton. Instead I got some treats from my mum’s Secret Santa (who was clearly an individual of impeccable taste as they know who I am), some parsnips and a swede from mum (who once again thinks I can’t read the “ooops” sticker from Chavda – because nothing says “I love you, my fine steed” like past the sell by date vegetables…) and a bag of treats from mini-mother, who I still haven’t forgiven me for two-timing me with the little dude she won’t let me eat. I mean MEET.
Me and the big man clearly need some mano-y-mano time to discuss his idea of suitable gifts. I am an equine philanthropist, a fund-raising heavyweight and all-round good guy – if that doesn’t get a gelding on the “good horse” list, I’m not sure what does?
Continued below…
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So, now Kissmuss is over we turn our attention to New Year and the annual question about New Year’s revolutions. Do I do them in the school? The field? The road? When mother is mounted or when she’s leading me? Humans seem to seem a lot of time making these revolutions so I want to make sure I’m doing mine right. I have heard many people say they don’t last long but, how could they? I’m ¾ tonne of equine muscle not Darcy-bleeding-Bussell. I can only spin for so long before I get all dizzy and discombobulated. Which is not an issue to be taken lightly not least because it can lead to Herman the German sticking his hand in unmentionable places. Which is absolutely no way to see in a New Year…
Decisions, decisions.
Well however, whenever and with whom you choose to do you revolutions, enjoy the tail end of 2018 and here’s to an awesome 2019. See you in the New Year
Laters,
Hogmanay Hovis x
