Dear Diary,
I have got to the point with the humans strangles epidemic that even I, the great equine intellect that I am, can’t count the days any longer, but it’s fair to say it’s hung around longer than mother’s “baby weight” (funny I didn’t know you called cake “baby” – who knew?).
To be honest though, as I revealed last week, I have other things on my mind. Just to allay any concerns that the mothership’s incompetent typing of my masterful musings may have caused, sadly I’m not getting a new mother. Just a new house. To be clear I’m all up for a BOGOF deal (I assume this is where mother bogs off?), but it doesn’t appear to be on the cards so sadly she will follow me to my new abode like a lingering bad smell. My life, it’s fair to say sucks harder than a turbo charged Dyson (other vacuum cleaners are available).
Mother’s search for a suitable new Hovis hotel has taken her far and wide and with mixed results. This is, as I said last week, due to her list of “needs” being longer than Beyoncé’s rider. Let’s be honest, I am a simple man, all I need is grass, moral-less mares, somewhere dry to sleep and absolutely nowhere to do any stressage.
I can only imagine mother’s interrogation of these terrified yard owners as to the veracity of their equine management degrees, the size of their public liability insurance (which is rich given how big a liability she is), the fastest route to the nearest veterinary horsepital and their security to hold off my groupies (I’m serious — I had to be moved to a field away from the road at the boss lady’s as people kept coming down the drive to see me – and who can blame them?). I’m just hoping to God that she isn’t treating this like one of her work selection doofers and putting them through role plays – can you just imagine? As a serious equine business owner, how would you cope with some bushy-haired lunatic waving a fat foot at you and asking you to demonstrate your poulticing skills? You’d run for the hills faster than Nemo at the opening of a sushi restaurant – well, if he had legs anyway…
Mother does however think she’s found somewhere for us and so has started the job of packing up over 11 years of life litter, which is turning out to be a tad traumatic. For a start, mother has realised that I have more rugs than I have lives (and let’s be honest, I’ve gone through more of them than a reincarnated cat) and that she has more bandages than every tack shop and feed merchant in Lincolnshire combined. If anyone has made a killing over the past few years in shares in vetwrap then I’d like my cut, because the reason you have such a dandy dividend is sat in about *cough* five boxes in the tack room. In the mothership’s defence, because she works away and I have had a tendency over the past few years to throw more abscesses than she throws wobblies, she always liked to know that the boss lady had supplies. By the sheer volume, I do wonder if the number of times she has fallen off have caused sufficient brain damage for her to be confusing me with a centipede but then this is mother, and I have learnt over the past 15 years just not to ask.
Talking of Scutigera coleoptratas (and yes peoples, I did Latin) – what goes 99 bonk, 99 bonk? A centipede with a wooden leg… bom bom! I am available for birthdays, Bar Mitzvahs and open mike nights. Though note not Magic Mike nights – I’m not that kind of boy.
So, as it stands, if mother ever finishes packing all her stuff – and here ladies and gentlemen is the walking example of “all the gear and bu**er all idea” – we might get moved in the next week or so. I am very apprehensive and sad about losing my lay love, but equally excited to meet new adoring fans and perhaps for once pull something more than a muscle.
Laters,
Hovis
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