Dear diary,
Happy New Year peeps — here’s to 2018. Apparently for most of it, it will be the year of the dog but seriously, what do the Chinese know about astronomy? Because people, I can assure you it’s going to be the year of The Hoverine.
I am feeling super well. Some might say rather too well. And for the absence of doubt when I say “some”, I mean she-who-must-be-obeyed. Apparently only a few days ago she posted a “hilarious” — people, remember it’s me with the writing talent, so please don’t encourage her — advert likening me to a turbo injected jet engine on my Facebook page and was asking for test pilots. While I was deeply insulted on one level — I do not have thrust issues, I can assure you — on another I saw a wealth of opportunity. For with my new X-ray vision, mutated blood and natural athletic ability it’s only right that I should gain a pilot with talent to match mine, someone with courage and raw passion and who has, quite frankly, slightly more of a game plan than “hang on and try not to cry”. I’ve showjumped with Geoff Billington, now surely one of these event riders must be in need of a new steed?
Meanwhile back here in boringsville, home of the ever-present mother-ship, the boss lady remains on holiday so I have had the delights of mother attempting to shoot eye drops in my eye with the aim and accuracy of a drunk man attempting to hit a urinal from 10 feet away, plus her endless moaning about her broken back. She went into hospital for nerve blocks yesterday. Hospital? God, what a wuss! When I’ve had them it’s been Herman the German chucking needles at me in the barn and making me run up and down. There was no hospital and general anaesthetic for me. But then again I am a real man, while she is a pretend northerner who is these days about as hard as brie left in the sun for too long. Apparently she did consider asking Herman to do it, but when she looked at the facts — overweight cob mare with limited breeding capabilities and chronic lameness — she was a tad concerned he might just euthanise her on the spot. She certainly wouldn’t pass a vetting these days…
In the past week that she-who-is-in-possession-of-the-business-end-of-a-leadrope has been looking after me, I have tried to delight her by showing her how well I’m feeling:
On Saturday I thought I’d make her feel loved and proceeded to cuddle her adoringly down the drive. What I called “cuddling” she called “invading her personal space” so I was subjected to a re-make of Dirty Dancing: “this is your dance space, this is my dance space”, only with a lot more swearing and a lot less half naked Jennifer Grey.
On Sunday she called me to her so I approached, looked at her adoringly, executed a zero to warp speed transition, kicked up my heels and flew past her in a display of aerial manoeuvrability the Red Sparrows would be proud of. After she had removed the clods of mud from her face, hair and from down the cavern between her ample air bags I’m pretty sure she was speechless with joy.
On Monday with my new X-ray vision, I was recruited to be the new point man for the band of rabbit insurgents who live in the hedge by the school. It was therefore only me doing my job that, upon spotting danger somewhere in the neighbouring county, I grew to an impressive 18hh, snorted warningly like a dragon and came in with such an enormous elevated trot mum was last seen trying to re-set her dislocated shoulder while simultaneously weeping that she can’t produce the same movement under saddle.
On Tuesday, mum caught me on the hop while I was drinking and had my headcollar on with such dexterity that I was momentarily speechless. Which explains why I opened my mouth and spat a substantial amount of water down her top. Although perhaps not why I stood on her foot as she opened the gate…
On Wednesday it was blowing a gale and mum had foolishly not put my mask on before we left the barn. As she attempted to womanfully wrestle it on in force 10 gusts, it flapped around my ears, up my nose and in my eyes. Mum braced herself for the inevitable and perhaps justifiable spooking and shying. I decided to throw her a curve ball and stood like a statue. She left looking perplexed.
Continued below…
Hovis’ Friday diary: a stocking, some treats and a smack on the bum
Hovis shares his Christmas highlights, his plans for 2018 and apologises for an incident on his facebook page...
I understand Aunty Em has reported back that I’ve been an angel while she’s been looking after me on behalf of the wonky one. I can only imagine how thrilled that makes mother as she reflects upon her clearly sub-standard horsewoman skills…
As I’ve been likened to a jet engine, I’m off to work on my need for speed and perfect my fly by while mother loses her loving feeling. Anyone want to be my wingman?
Laters,
Hovis
