Dear diary,
I am sulking. Big time. The biggest big time you can imagine. EVER.
Why I hear you ask? What on earth could have happened? What deed so fiendish can have been inflicted upon you, you lovely, cuddly, gentle but dashingly talented soul?
Well I shall tell you. Blood hounding. The chasing of the man in the red sweater. My second biggest love in life after cross-country. And carrots. And possibly mares (only ones in a good mood).
Anyway I digress. Yes the source of my unhappiness is blood hounding. And Aunty Becky. And the fact she went WITHOUT me. She took her little black dude of questionable taste (exhibit A — he wears pink your honour) and didn’t take me. The best chaser of the man in the red jumper in the whole of Lincolnshire and she left me behind. And what’s far, far, far worse is not only did she go and do one of my favourite things without me, I was then subjected to an HOUR of stressage with mother. How in all of creation is this fair?
If I didn’t love that girl to the end of the earth and back then I think this would be utter grounds for sharer divorce.
And the stressage. Well. Let’s just say it was a battle of pure wills form start to finish with neither side walking away either happy or totally unscathed. I may have received the business end of mothers schooling whip across my manly derriere on several occasions and I may have accidentally taken the corner she was whinging about so tightly I may have sandwiched her leg into the school fence. Well she wanted me deep into the corners so deep I went…
Needless to say we weren’t entirely on speaking terms by the time we’d finished. Which was a shame because after an eventful hack the day before we’d been getting on quite well.
We’d gone out with the high maintenance diva and her horse (bom bom!) and had braved tractors, mad quacking things, a flying lawnmower and several rats on leads hell bent on suicide by Hovis hoof. I had taken it all in my stride (admittedly several quick strides forward and sideways down a track at one point but heh it was still strides). I had coped with the moody mare trying to eat me every time I drew further forward than her shoulder and had resisted all urges to cart mother to Cornwall and back. I had manfully coped with the fact due to my thick manly coat (which is in NO way ginger) I had sweated up more than a premier football player at a tax man convention and had generally both retained and indeed polished my halo.
Sadly Sunday’s antics put me firmly back in the bad books and I see a lot of school work in my future. Equally sadly this week I’m getting clipped so this will mean she-who-must-be-obeyed will take the opportunity to make me work within an inch of my life and possibly my ancestors’ lives too. It will also mean I am subjected to the usual cooing from anyone with double XX chromosomes about my “adorable” seal pup colouring, how it shows off my “girlie” cheekbones and highlights my big “cow” eyes. I hate this time of year. I hate the fact I look like an advert for green peace when I’m clipped. Life sucks like Dolly with a sherbet lemon. Fact.
Anyway while my life might be going down the toilet faster than Jamaican on a bob sleigh I do need to thank you for your continued help in changing the lives of those less fortunate than me. Your buying of my new book Hovis’ Friday Diary: The Fast and the Feathery has been impressive and with all proceeds going to the equine charity Bransby Horses then it really does make a difference. Buy your copy of this or any other of my books (or my clothing range) at www.bransbyhorses.co.uk from the online shop. Thank you again for all your support — you are amazing.
Unlike Aunty Becky.
Who I might not speak to until at least the New Year.
Or the next time she brings me a polo.
Anyway if anyone who appreciates me wants to take me chasing men in any colour jumper then I’m game if you are. Drop your details to my mediocre secretary (mother) and let’s go!
Laters,
Hopeful of Hounding Hovis
