Dear diary,
My apologies for my absence – I can only imagine the untold pain and suffering it caused, but mother is an uncaring broomstick sitter and thus bobbed off on holiday without finding replacement cover for my scribe. I know many of you labour under the impression that she is in some way the talented half of the relationship, but in all honesty, I just need someone who can type…
The last day before she went away was spent having new shoes fitted by my ex-best friend, Cool New Shoes Man. This is the man that I have elevated from mediocrity to mega-stardom by allowing him to bask in my accident-prone aura while he claims he was in some way responsible for me still being here, rather than the truth, which is I am Hoverine. In return he pays me back by allowing me to pay for his wedding then not inviting me, sticking his tongue down my throat but never introducing me to his new wife’s mare and THEN usurping me in my mother’s affections by bringing Cool New Shoes Dog with him, who turns out to be a puppy with legs longer than mother’s (not hard – snakes have longer legs than mother) and the sort of sad Bambi eyes that mother uses on her bank manager. The fact the pup colour coordinates with me only went a small way to mollifying me and so the atmosphere between us could best be described as positively Siberian. Not that Captain Oblivious appeared to notice – there are rhinos with thinner skin than that one…
The blubbership then bobbed off and left me with Aunty Em and the boss Lady, which suits me fine as while Aunty Em does ride me a lot, she and I have a great understanding in which I neither carry my own head, nor come close to anything resembling an outline and in return I don’t try to kill her. Why my mother, who claims to be intelligent, can’t work a similar reciprocal arrangement is a constant source of bafflement. But then to be fair, as I have stated on many occasions, we all know mother entered the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn’t looking…
So, my fitness regime continues as I get ready for Your Horse is Alive in November, but disappointingly is still only in trot with no C words in sight. Being told I am lucky to be alive does not diminish the disappointment at looking longingly at stubble fields and remembering days of mother hanging on for grim death while we yeehaaed totally out of control, hell bent on thrashing my thoroughbred running mates. I’m not sure mother remembers it with quite so much fondness, but then if she got any more boring they’d rename magnolia paint after her…
What this fortnight has further demonstrated is my case for position of equine coach as our amazing paralympic dressage team has once again proven to be world beaters. While they are undeniably in possession of the sort of talent that mother can only fantasise about, they also had a secret weapon. Me. I have canoodled with Sir Lee and with Sophie (we shall skim over the fact that she teaches Barbie Boy as that’s utterly irrelevant – the only thing she’d get from him is fleas), whispered the same sort of advice to them as I did to Charlotte What’s-her-face-in-a-garden and Carl and voila! I am the weapon other equine teams are terrified of and that’s when I have been used ad hoc. Think what I could do for the British equestrian teams if they gave me a proper job – we would be the envy of the world; head equine coach Hovis has a certain ring to it I feel. So British Stressage, British Showjumping and British Eventing peoples – Paris is only a few years away and time is of the essence. I’m prepared to overlook your lack of desire to put me on the national teams for all these years and do what is right for both the greater good and my ability to pull something more than a muscle.
Riders should also note that any fear that all the teams would be made up of mares is merely a cheap shot and a rumour started by the other teams – equally I am an advocate of ensuring equality what with being a bit of a new man and all that (as mum points out the amount of money she’s spent on new bits of me I am damn near a new man…).
I will sit by the phone and await your call.
Laters,
Hovis
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