Dear Diary
Apologies for the radio silence last week, but mini-mother and the mothership herself were in Duh bye; I know many people question the contribution mother really makes to the brilliance that is my weekly musing and thus why her being away would change anything, but the reality is it’s much better when she types everything up. Not least because for once the balance of power is the right way around – I talk and she does – as opposed to the version she prefers, which is she shouts and I do.
As a result of her being away it’s fair to say I have enjoyed getting back to my roots of an Irish bog monster; being at one with nature, feeling the wind in my mane and the mud under my hooves… and in my mane… and my tail… and my fur… and my ears… and possibly in my eyelashes too. Mother’s face when she came to get me in on Wednesday was a picture – you know the famous Scream one? Yeah, THAT picture.
I was apparently coming in to see my old buddy Evil Army Man (EAM), who was doing the pint-sized pain in the posterior’s teeth and mine. I assume Barbie boy’s check was to ensure his dentures were in the right place, what with him talking out of his bum most of the time, whereas mine was to prepare my pearly whites for the selfie posing at Your Horse is Alive in just over two weeks.
EAM brought with him a very nice young man who was looking to see if he fancied a career in horse dentistry; I’m not sure in the balance what he left thinking. On one hand he got to stare into the literal mouthpiece of the equine nation, and on the other he got to see that all horse-owning females above a certain age are frankly nuttier than a Snickers. And when I say “certain age”, I mean over four…
He came with mum to fetch me and Barbie boy in so had a front-row view to her meltdown over the state of me after which she suggested he take me in as I was less bother than Barbie. The fact I weigh twice as much as the ginger whinger and have weapons grade reflexes clearly escaped her in her threat appraisal, but then this is the woman that’s so blonde I swear she spent 20 minutes looking at the orange juice carton the other week because it said “concentrate”.
Anyways, we all headed in and I let EAM show off his technical skills to his young apprentice whilst standing still longer than Liz Trussed Up was prime minister. Come to think of it the vibrations coming from my mouth are as close to reinstating fracking as it appears she managed to get…
Barbie made a bit more of a fuss, but then we can’t all be the strong silent types when it comes to Evil Army Men sticking vibrating things in one’s mush, and quicker than a politician’s U-turn we were done and put back out into the fields. Mother disappeared whimpering quietly about shares in shampoo companies and how on earth was she supposed to get THAT ready for Your Horse is Alive. I pull off feral to fabulous better than anyone I know, so I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the THAT but knowing mother one can never be too sure.
Talking of Your Horse is Alive, time is nearly out for you to enter the competition on my Facebook pages to win two tickets to come and meet me. Mini-mother will select the winner at the end of the day today (Friday 28 October), so if you haven’t entered yet then I suggest you get on it. Stay posted to my Facebook pages for the winner over the weekend.
Laters,
Hovis
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