Dear diary,
Ok, so this chilly willy weather is losing any charm, if it ever held any, faster than mother puts on weight if she even glances longingly at a Jaffa cake. I mean, like seriously, while I know that I was robbed of my ability to propagate the Earth with my progeny at puberty, I would actually like to see my Hovis sausage without having to send search and rescue in to find him. Weeing is becoming an adrenaline danger sport – forget dicing with death, this is hosing with hypothermia…
It has warmed up slightly in the past week or so meaning that, unlike my mother, the school has moments of softening, such that we unfortunately can occasionally be worked.
This wasn’t true for me on Saturday when it was deemed ok for the pint-sized pain in the posterior, but just a trifle too hard for me. Since me, the blonde bimbette and my mate “the big ginger t*sser” (I don’t think that’s his actual name, but that’s all mother calls him) were turned out in the all-weather next to the school, we got a birds eye view of him being hauled in, tacked up and made to do flat work for at least 100 years, with more transitions than mother has calories in a day.
After a while, me and TBGT got a tad bored so decided that we would stage some races up and down the all-weather to see if his thoroughbred-type genes could outpace my four-wheel drive, rear engine power. We were having a fabulous time until Captain killjoy arrived panting like an asthmatic on a treadmill, having managed to perambulate the whole 20m between the school and the all-weather at a pace marginally faster than a sloshed sloth doing a sobriety test.
Recognising the steely eye and the set jaw as red flashing warning signs of an imminent tirade and/or some sort of fit, I sent my feet and immediate cease and desist order and did a very passable impression of Nelson’s Column. TBGT however made other choices – in other words, he made like a banana and split. As moves go, about as intelligent as those who think Boyz II Men is a daycare centre…
Needless to say he learnt a lot of things that day – not least that mother can swear fluently and without repetition for some considerable time, and that having rebuilt me limb by limb at enormous cost (financially and morally), she’s not a fan of anyone inciting me to break any remaining insurable limbs by racing up and down all weathers re-enacting the final furlong of the Kentucky Derby.
Suffice to say, the next day we stood very quietly while mini-mother and Barbie Boy did “no stirrups Sunday” with mother doing a lot of yelling about mini-mother’s feet looking like a duck.
I was then fetched in along with my “****head mate”, who came in like a lamb – honestly, if he’d sucked up to her any harder, she would have needed a towel. I, however, was frogmarched out to the school and made to work, as apparently if I was “fit enough to run up and down there like Usain Bolt in fur boots” then I could channel some of that energy and re-connect with my inner stressage Diva, Boglands Quaver (as opposed to Moorlands Tortilla for those of you who don’t remember).
This new-found desire to make me work has also manifested into the new boss lady at the yard being tasked to ride me once a week (pictured), the first session of which occurred this week. This was bad enough as it was without mother sending a very long, very detailed and very questionable note to said nice lady about what I can and can’t do. Apparently, she also put it on my Facebook pages, which caused much amusement. I don’t see why. It was a scandalous slur on my reputation and if I could find a solicitor prepared to work for pony nuts then I would be suing.
Just to spite her, I then behaved like a fat fighter on a chocolate promise, thus meaning that the new boss lady is eyeing mother with the sort of expression used when reserved for those who are a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Clearly trying to connect the mother-generated image of some half wild equine lunatic with the feathered gentleman she encountered is causing her some issues – but let’s be honest here, where mother is concerned, if brains were taxed, she would get a rebate…
Anyways, I am off challenge TBGT to another race as the mothership is away this weekend with her bestie watching snow polo in St More-zits, so she’s not here to shout at us. I am going to enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts.
Laters,
Hovis
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