Dear diary,
The humans strangles epidemic continues to hang around longer than an unwanted relative at Christmas, despite more and more people offering their arms to the needle men with the joyful abandonment of Morris Dancers at a bee farm. While rumours circulate that those who have had two little pricks might be allowed out of the country without needing to go onto box rest on their return, the German Warmbloods have suggested that we should be prohibited from their lands. Honestly, just because we’re getting quite good at stressage, there’s no need to take your top hat and tails and flounce off in a huff – my mates Charlotte-what’s-her-face-in-a-garden and Mr Nester don’t represent all of us; most of us can’t differentiate a tempi from a toupé on a good day…
That hasn’t stopped she who-has-a-stressage-whip-but-is-far-from-qualified-to-use-it insisting on working on my bending, suppleness, straightness and self-carriage (like she even knows what that is), while we continue to be forced to walk around the school like some sort of day release for help the aged and afflicted. The other day she tacked me up, led me into the school and then left me to my own devices while she set up a series of poles and the like while I eyed her up with the level of distrust usually shown to a hedgehog in a condom factory. This was apparently an attempt to provide “active stimulus” to help keep me engaged in my recovery – honestly, if brains were petrol, my mother couldn’t ride a moped around a fruit loop. Having given up on “active stimulus” when I showed as much interest in the idea as a snake in a bra shop, then the big guns were brought out. Aunty H got on me.
Now, Aunty H and I have a bit of a love/hate relationship; I love to lick and swipe snot on her, whereas she hates it. I love to wander off when she’s trying to put my fly mask on, whereas she hates it. You kind of get the idea. Now, clearly the equine love of my life wasn’t too happy to see her beloved mother astride me (jealousy is understandable), so I was subjected to the sort of death stare that should have had me instantly combusting, while Aunty H was equally determined to show to mother that despite being several decades older she is more capable.
It was a bit unfair to be honest, we all have long since acknowledged that mother got into the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn’t watching and thus when it comes to any form of talent is as bereft as her bank balance. Needless to say, I produced a walk for Aunty H that was several gears up from the funeral procession pace mother had managed to wheedle out of me and thus, mother’s death stare joined my lady loves’. It’s fair to say, if looks could have killed then Barbie boy was going to have needed to dig a bigger hole in his field…
Aunty H did say she had enjoyed riding me (let’s be honest people, name one person who has ever sat on me that hasn’t… with the exception of my mother), and that it was a pleasure to have had the chance to ride greatness while she was still able. Well ok, she maybe didn’t say the last bit out loud, but she meant it – I could tell. I didn’t however see her volunteering to take me out if I ever get cleared to go for a little hack again; that list seems to be as lacking in numbers, as was the last count of mother un-frayed nerves… I haz NO idea why?
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Anyway, I’m off to try and make amends with my lady love who hasn’t spoken to me since the weekend but whom screams louder than Maria Carey at a waxing if I am moved away from her. Women. I will never understand them…
Laters,
Hovis
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