Dear Diary
I don’t even know where to start describing my last week and I am concerned that even trying to, will result in me needing therapy from the horror of reliving it or have me arrested for sharing indecent content. For once, it’s fair to say I am literally lost for words.
The weekend had seen us actually manage a small amount of time outside in between Mother Nature having yet another fit of the vapours and for me it was peaceful as the Mothership was up a mountain with her best mate and partner in crime in Saint More-zits supposedly watching snow polo. I do understand that it transpired that unfortunately the lake hadn’t frozen properly so the weekend was a polo wash out and what they’d actually done was sat up a mountain and drank champagne instead.
Which maybe explains a few things.
To be fair, however, it wasn’t my mother nor Aunty M who started the situation – it was Snitchy McSnitch face Crazy Self Employed Lady, who it definitely transpires is prepared to go to extreme lengths to ensure that her human herd are kept fully abreast of any developments back at the ranch.
There I was, minding my own business, eating hay and chilling out when I am unceremoniously hoiked out of my stable for an unanticipated haircut. So not the way I thought I would spend a Sunday evening but fair enough, mother’s obsession with making sure I don’t have a hair out of place whilst she gets to wander around looking like the illegitimate love child of Dougal and Chewbacca is well documented.
Unfair but well documented.
CSEL it has to be said can whip a boy’s winter woolies off faster than a Las Vegas call girl so it wasn’t long before I’m half naked and showing more ribs than a Denny’s menu – again mother’s view of me carrying extra weight is in direct contradiction to the approach she take to her own excessive padding. All I can say is if she ends up in a plane crash in the Andes her fellow passengers will be fine – her ass alone could feed a family of six for a month…
Anyway’s suddenly CSEL stops more abruptly than me when I spot a yellow peril and a look of immense concern passes over her features. Well, either that or she had wind.
Next thing I know she’s whipped her phone out and is taking pictures of my MAN PARTS! Now I’m pretty sure she had to zoom out to fit it in but the woman is shooting my Hovis Hose. I mean what the flip? I am NOT a prawn star. I don’t do that sort of thing – I am a solid upstanding member of society and do not partake in taking sheath shots, pecker pics or sausage snaps. It’s wrong on more levels than a lift in a brothel.
From there the situation went downhill faster than a slalom skier – before I could even do anything to stop her (you know by like sitting on her or eating her phone) she’d sent a text of my todger to MY MOTHER asking her if my bits looked big. What followed was a text stream of such horror and humiliation that I can’t even discuss it, as they went back and forth between them for the next few minutes whilst I considered putting the clipper cable in my mouth and jumping in the rain butt…
I’m pretty sure I am never ever going to get over this – standing naked in the barn whilst my mother and supposed carer study images of my intimates across several thousand miles. I now have more emotional baggage than Heathrow left luggage office and a possible lawsuit pending from Apple for sending prawn across their platforms. There is literally not enough therapists in the world to help me get over this.
Thus is anyone needs me I am currently rocking quietly in a corner, freezing my arse off because I have NO hair and NO self esteem left, whilst crossing my legs like a vestal virgin to prevent any more violations of my virtue.
Laters,
A horrified Hovis
Read more from Hovis…
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘To come between a woman and food is like sticking your tongue into an electric socket’
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I am much maligned’
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘genuinely, what the flip is wrong with her?’
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