Dear diary,
As freedom day moves closer and the human herd prepares to drop masks like pants at a nudist beach, it does seem that there is light at the end of the tunnel. My fear being that light is Aunty Em’s headtorch as she comes to retrieve me from the field at zero dark thirty hours for us to “enjoy early morning bonding time”. I hate to burst her bubble, but to be honest, the only thing I want to bond with at that time of the morning is my bed.
I remain hopeful that our humans will become so enthralled with seeing each other without grazing muzzles that their fixation with us may dimmish to mere restraining order territory, rather than the current full on Wrong Direction Stalker Style obsession, which has so ruined the past 18 months for us all. If nothing else, it might keep mother and the boss lady distracted enough that they can stop paying such rapt attention to my waistline – since Barbie Boy has been diagnosed as having PMT (or some other such three letter acronym), all of us have been subjected to the sort of rationing not seen since Granny put a padlock on the biscuit barrel for the mothership’s own good. I have to equally point out, for a more mature man who was always built for strength (the speed and good looks are just a genetic bonus). I am never going to be the size of a thoroughbred – I haz muscles, people, lots of muscles.
Between the dieting and the exercise, it’s a wonder I have the energy to even type this – although to be fair, at least I’m not being made to go running with mother the way Barbie is. It’s like watching a small, resigned looking extra from TOWIE (slim legs, fat arse, very orange with unnaturally blonde hair) being dragged along behind a sunburnt, angry looking Oompa Loompa who does a progressively better impression of an asthmatic tomato the further she goes. It’s bad enough when she’s on board, but at least when she’s on my back I don’t have to trail behind her watching her substantial buttocks bounce about like two overweight cats fighting in an unfortunately thin black lycra sack. The front view isn’t any better – watching her air bags make a break for freedom is only missing an Attenborough voiceover and a rescue team from Greenpeace…
Continues below…
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Talking however of exercise, today I find out if I am allowed to legally trot (as opposed to illegally hoon about my field like a man possessed, which is enormous fun – nearly as much fun as counting the number of seconds it takes the colour to totally drain from the boss lady’s face as she clearly contemplates having to tell mother I’m back on three legs). I am having yet more photos taken of the most famous body part on either side of the Atlantic before Cool New Shoes Man puts on a new set of big boy shoes and hopefully I get to prance once more.
It’s been a very long time coming and I know the blubbership is more nervous than whenever she pays with card and she has to wait for them to tell her it’s gone through – something apparently I am responsible for, along with her grey hairs, expanding waist line and broken body parts…
So, more for mother than me, can you chuck any spare vibes you have my way, for a good photo of the inner working of my foot. I’m off to practise going lame on each leg in turn during a trot up just to see how long it takes me to make mother cry.
Laters,
Hovis
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