Dear diary,
So, my period of not being in the doghouse was shorter lived than the Government not being on the front pages for their belief that Chardonnay is essential office stationary. Just like the Government, it doesn’t mean the other fella is any better-behaved, mind you – just means I might have taken aim at my own hoof with a rather large gun…
Last week I enjoyed regaling you with stories of the blonde-haired bijou berk being in the bad books due to jettisoning his load of the mini-mother into the tree he was supposed to be taking her over. I, in the meantime, had managed to somehow disengage the ejector seat and had kept the mothership in the saddle despite feeling rather full of the joys of spring. The fact that this in turn was due to a lack of work due to me having broken the world’s best sharer is a detail best skimmed over at some speed…
All of that aside, Sir Palomino Prance-a lot was in the casa del pero and I was wafting about with my halo firmly in place, positively glowing off my ginger-in-the-wrong-light gleaming dappled coat. Yeah, it didn’t last…
This weekend saw the iron-fingered physio pay me a visit as she in turn bestowed compliments on how well I looked. I didn’t like the way she said “well”, as to the slightly cynical it might have inferred she thinks I’m carrying a few pounds, but I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt – having lived in foreign climes for quite some period, maybe she doesn’t speak proper English like what I does…
Anyway, as I had bounced in from the field full of joie de vie (and a fair amount of grass due to a slight electric fence malfunction, which meant I could reach over and help myself to the grass that is indeed greener on the other side), she was reminded of only a year or so ago when I could barely put one foot in front of the other. Indeed, as I flashed an extended trot of the type Viagra could have only dreamed of, towing mother like a landlocked water skier in my wake, it was very evident that these days the only one of us with a one way ticket to the knackers is the two-legged version with the big air bags… front and rear ones at that…
I was taken into my stable where I was massaged, covered in goo and had my super powers topped up with a healthy dose of ultrasonic power. She says “ultrasound”, but heh tomaatoe, tomato right?
After an hour of being made even more magnificent than I already was, I was sent back to the field with mini-mother carrying my breakfast and mother leading me out. Which is where it might have gone a little bit wrong.
For a start I was in a headcollar, which is unusual for mother as normally I am led out looking like a survivor from a particularly heavy bondage party, AND I was in a hurry to get back to my grass, PLUS the ground is more than a tad uneven as they have dug everything up to put the water pipes in for our new field drinkers. The net result was I tripped up over a particularly large hole, mother instinctively and idiotically tried to catch ¾ tonne of pure equine muscle and as a result tripped up herself, causing the sort of bruising last seen in suburbs around the country as everyone went through the “50 Shades of Grey” stage.
Mother’s version (unsurprisingly) is slightly different and seems to feature me using her body to cushion my own and thus flinging her into a hole with the energy and enthusiasm an Olympic shotputter, causing her ankle to turn less 50 shades of grey and more 60 shades of green. Since mother bruises if you look at her for too long, I wouldn’t be unduly concerned – I’m pretty sure if you yelled “free bar”, any residual malingering over a possibly damaged ankle would vanish faster than a pain au chocolat at a fat fighter meeting.
I am, however, now standing accused of trying to break every female in my life, which is fundamentally not true. I’m only breaking the old and boring ones such that only mini-mother remains and has to take the reins; there is a plan peoples – unlike mother, my IQ doesn’t rival that of single celled organisms.
Anyway, I’m off to proof read the first cuts of my new book, plot my next move (which may have to involve a bigger hole), and continue to exploit that gap in my fence before Captain Killjoy notices.
Laters,
Hovis
You might also be interested in:
Hovis’ Friday Diary: The kingpin is back, while Barbie Boy is in the dog house
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