Dear diary
I have BIG news! I’m putting myself up for adoption and am looking for a new mum or dad to take me on — look after me, enjoy my wit, humour and all-round amazing skills and have fun with me. I’m open to living in any part of the country — indeed the world — so am hoping that once you’ve all got over the shyness of approaching such a global megastar, that I might get some offers shortly.
Because to be quite frank, I’m not sure how much longer I can cope with mother. This week, to add to the insults of “walk-only-snoozeville”, she combed my feathers. With a NIT comb. Do I LOOK like I have NITS?! Looking down at her faffing about with my feathers, was like watching a BBC wildlife documentary about the grooming habits of primates. I’ve not been so mortified since I accidentally weed on one of Dolly’s rugs.
Apparently, I get a “build up of nastiness” behind my knees (so charming is my mother), so the only way to get it out of my feathers, in her view, is layer by layer with a NIT comb. Did I mention she used a NIT comb? Oh and that she used a hair slide to keep my remaining feathers away, like some sort of feathery hairdresser — I should just be grateful she didn’t decide to highlight them while she was at it. For the record, doing the can-cans to dislodge your NIT comb-wielding mother from your feathers — when she is a scant few inches away from your leading leg — is not appreciated and can result in a very sore bum. I’ll give mother her due though, for a big unit she’s got the reactions of Kong-Fu Panda on speed…
After the nit comb incident, I was not entirely in the mood to be very forgiving. So needless to say, after a few mounting “issues” we stuck to the school. I had an ITCH and bent to scratch it — it was pure coincidence that happened just as mother was swinging her leg over. The fact she nearly slid down my neck and out the front door like a greased pig on a helter skelter was beside the point. Admittedly, I was realising the error of my ways, when we were still in the school 40 minutes later — wandering around and doing transitions (i.e. stopping and starting). All because “Mr What-does-he-know-about-dressage-and-I-thought-we-were-mates Nester” apparently says they’re a good thing to do.
I never thought I would utter the words “I can’t wait to see Herman the German needle man”, but actually I am praying for him to turn up soon and say we can start some trot work. I’m losing the will to live. It’s also extremely difficult to remain in walk, when the number of tractors of terror are multiplying and the yellow peril uprising is in full bloom. Trotting and cantering are essential tools in the survival business and being banned from using them is placing my life in danger. That’s like asking that Bear Growls guy to go into the wilderness without a film crew, several make-up artists and a box of waterproof matches (‘rubs sticks together to make fire’ my big fat hairy bottom).
So, as stated at the beginning, I think my only option to secure a better future is for one of you to adopt me. Applications to be sent to my minion or the office, I look forward to reviewing them.
Laters
Hovis
