Dear diary,
I have said this before and I will say it again – there is no doubt whatsoever that Mother Nature is indeed female. Now, clearly the term “mother” might be seen to give it away, but then we live in times when one shouldn’t assume anything, so actually it’s her behaviour where the real evidence lies. Behaviour best described as “mercurial” as a minimum…
Seriously! What is with the thermostat control issues? One minute it’s cold enough to freeze the baby makers off a metal monkey and the next minute she’s going for Chargrilled Clydesdale – with a side of wilted Welshie. If my nose peels any more they’re going to rename me onion and that’s despite the fly mask that seems to have been surgically attached to my face with a nose on it, which might just have fit… if I was an anteater…
Forget the advertising deal they had to cancel with Sir Sweat-me-not, Sure are missing out on an equine range: “I’m sure I smell like sweaty horse” would be a sure-fire hit in Aldi’s mystery middle aisle. Honestly, if I sweat any more, the local ant colony is going to be holding canoe slalom time trials down my inner thighs with the eddies being caused by the steps in the hairs still evident months after Karen Scissor Hands spent a terrifying 10 minutes taming my man garden with a pair of scissors and a steely glint in her eye.
It’s stifling even when the bright orange thing isn’t burning hotter than mother’s temper after nights of no sleep and a hayfever-induced cough that’s making seals jealous at the depth of her bark, with the dark bits of the day not being any cooler meaning that not only are we sweaty but also sleep deprived, which is a dangerous combination.
The only good news is the mothership has been manically busy this past week and so hasn’t been able to ride even if she’d wanted to. Although why either of us would wish to contend with the other one’s sweat along with our own is beyond me – sort of the way diets are beyond mother. All in all we’re all hot, sweaty, tired and miserable.
I’m hoping the weather is at least a bit better next week as a photographer is coming to take photos of me to help her showcase her brilliant talent. Mum has told her to bring her wide-angled lens to ensure she can photograph me and my arse and my ego all in the same photograph, which is rich coming from someone who needs the phone in panoramic mode in order to take a selfie. I will have to have a bit of a groom beforehand so that she doesn’t mistake me for the feral side of the family and away we shall go. I can only imagine she will have then reached the summit of her career, so I will do my best to help her through the experience.
Talking of career highlights, work is still ahoof on my new book which is looking likely to be on sale in November this year, with all proceeds once again going to Bransby Horses. If you haven’t read the previous seven (and I find it hard to believe that any of you haven’t), they make great holiday reads and are available at www.bransbyhorses.co.uk in the online shop.
Anyway, I’m off to swelter some more and possible sacrifice the ginger nut at the alter in order to pray for rain. If the weather changes over the weekend then you know I was successful and finally that pint-sized palomino was useful for something…
Laters,
Hovis
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