Dear diary,
Well I think it’s fair to say that I’m back down to earth with a bump. Only a few weeks ago I was hanging out with superstars and adoring fans, this week I’ve been pinned to the floor by three women and been abused so badly I might have nightmares for years. Life is fickle. So are women…
So if you’ve been following me for a while you’ll know that every now and again I get a sore spot behind my left knee; I view it merely as the price I have to pay for having magnificent feathers and oodles of talent and am usually very manly about it. To be clear, when I say “manly” I mean I try to kick anyone who tries to touch it in the head like Jean-Claude Van Doodarr. Mum in turn gets very upset about my Jet Li-style moves and her and I generally have a large argument which results in one of us not speaking to the other for at least a week.
Well, it’s fair to say she’s getting a tad wise to this and the boss lady is even worse. She’s got in the habit of sticking this magic stick on my nose which makes me go a tad lala for a few minutes, by which time she’s fiddled with my leg and Lord knows what else while I was counting imaginary butterflies.
Last weekend however, the evil duo took it to a whole new level, and between them and the usually lovely Aunty, R have made me the laughing stock of the yard. They slipped the magic stick thing onto my nose, mum held up a back leg and then while I was away with the fairies they shaved a patch out of the back of my beautiful feathers. And it’s not small. This was apparently to allow them to see the issue better (what’s wrong with wearing glasses?), to allow my skin to “breathe” (it could breathe perfectly fine through my feathers, thank you) and to be able to get cream etc. to the site of the problem. In other words, I now look like I have mange and am in possession of a landing strip up the back of my leg so large I had to wave down a passing Euro Fighter the other day before it mistook me for the local RAF base. I look ridiculous.
One of the ginger, high maintenance ones at the yard (there are several) suggested I could ring the new US president elect and ask if I could borrow a hair piece to stick behind my knee. Needless to say I am not speaking to him and have spent many a pleasant hour plotting his demise.
What makes it worse is that boss lady and mum still aren’t happy and have now brought Herman the German Needle Man into the equation which resulted in the usual “I’m so pleased to see you dude, let’s have a manly cuddle and a neck slap and WALLOP, there’s a needle in your neck Hovis”. The man is so cunning he makes a fox look like a rank amateur.
So I’m like a giant pin cushion with holes in my magnificent feathers and zero street cred left. How is this my life? I’m sure Mr B wouldn’t do this to me so I am currently trying to figure out how to hoof a lift to the other side of the country as soon as horsely possible. If anyone can give me a lift I’d be very grateful?
In other news, mum is currently having a total nervous breakdown after someone helpfully sent her hatcam footage of a British Eventing (BE) BE80 competition. Now you will recall that we have foolishly agreed to take part in the amazing Wobbleberry challenge which sees middle-aged, unfit, pants riders (I’m not at all sure that’s actually the criteria but it does describe mother to a T) attempt to take on the might of a BE80.
Now, the only thing foolish about this from my point of view is the choice of jockey. If one of my new superstar pals wanted to take me around then there would be absolutely nothing foolish about watching an exhibition of athleticism of the type never seen on a BE course before. With mother on board we’re going to be lucky if we make it out of the warm-up area without hysterics, several syringes full of calmer and a blindfold. And to be clear that’s for mum…
She can’t go over a canter pole without her pulse rate resembling a hummingbird on a caffeine binge, so getting her around anything higher than a knee-high pony course would be a triumph. We’ve not competed together for years and there’s good reason for that: she’s pants.
Continued below…
Like this? You might also enjoy reading these:
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I didn’t know whether mother was going to cry, spontaneously combust or murder someone’
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Mum hyperventilated so much I feared the course builder was going to have to resuscitate her’
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘as much energy as a tortoise after a zumba class’
No doubt some mad fittening campaign is lurking around the corner and mother will be reading up on dealing with nerves. Personally, I’d be reading the “riding for dummies” if I were her but since when does she ever listen to me? We need help people. And a LOT of it…
Anyway I’m off to go and try to knit myself some sort of feather extensions out of baler twine and hay while watching what’s left of my street cred gallop over the horizon laughing.
Laters,
A slightly hairless Hovis
