Dear diary,
Time is marching on and thus the cult event Your Horse is Alive draws ever closer. Here, vast packs of hormonally and economically challenged middle aged ladies browse stalls of helpful things like guides on how to ride one side of their equine, size guides to Tena Lady pants and industrialised strappings to prevent black eyes due to bouncing bosoms in sitting trot. In between all the bending of the credit cards, attendees also get to see some of the best equestrian talent in the world. Geoff, Ben, Jay and Oliver et al all manage to contain their amazement at being in the same postcode as such equine royalty as myself and produce some amazing shows while they are at it. True professionals, it has to be said.
In preparation for my show transformation (code name feral to fabulous), I mentioned last week that CSEL has been wafting the clippers and the scissors around with the wanton abandonment of a 12 year old at a Wrong Direction concert and as a result I now look like a seal pup with a bowl cut. As not one of you responded to my pleas around mane extensions or the like, I am currently training my ear fluff into some sort of comb over to try and offset the straightness of the lines, while eyeing up some of my fellow stable dwellers to see if I can pin any of them to the ground and pull tail/mane hair out of them to fashion into a toupé. As I am more of a lover than a fighter I am not hopeful…
Besides which, I am not speaking to at least two of them.
The other day CSEL decided that I should play nanny to two other equines including a new(ish) pony and take them and their riders out on a hack. I viewed this as a great option as it meant I was with sacrificial victims, while mother viewed the idea of me being used as a nanny with the sort of amusement I usually show when she suggests she can ride. I was however horrified to see that my act of kindness was met with a Facebook post from the mother of the child who was riding the new(ish) pony (are you keeping up with this?) which basically suggested I looked slow. SLOW! Snails, sloths and mother’s mental capacity are slow. I am a racing snake in leg warmers. Now in fairness, it has been pointed out that the rest of her post went on to highlight how none of them could in fact keep up with me but that’s besides the point. I KNOW I’m not actually slow, but I take umbrage at the fact it’s claimed I LOOK slow. I have seen this sort of innate featherism all my life – just because I have larger than average body work doesn’t mean there isn’t a high performance engine under the bonnet. I now know how hippos feel – surprisingly fast over a short distance, can swim like an Exocet and are one of the deadliest killers in the land and yet everyone thinks they’re big slow and cuddly (why when I was writing that I thought of mother I have no idea…* cough* spirit animal *cough *).
Anyways, it’s fair to say I am royally offended and between that, my scalping haircut and storm huftyMcpufty or whatever it’s called about to cause havoc, it’s fair to say I’m not best happy. Stay safe everyone and remember puddles might be deeper than they look, so keep a life ring on any Shetlands you actually like…
Laters,
Hovis
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