Dear Diary,
I am officially peeved. And I mean really miffed. Like take my bat and ball and go home miffed.
What has got my feathers in a twist, I hear you ask? The answer is simple people; stubble fields. More precisely my lack of getting anywhere near them while that black and white bijou bog-trotting bain of my life went out hacking through stubble fields at the weekend; not once but TWICE. What did I do? Circles. Lots of circles. And not of the crop type either.
What’s worse is apparently the pesky piebald was a “superstar” near crop sprayers, tractors and a hedge cutter and could “teach me a thing or two”. I’m sure he could; about kissing derriere. This is all because he was a monster during mini-mother’s lesson the other week and mother was loudly heard discussing how he would be returned from whence he came unless he bucked up his ideas rather than his ass. Furthermore, a lack of fear of tractors does not show bravery — it shows the survival instincts of a depressed lemming and the brain power of an amoeba. I do not aspire to this in any way, shape or form and the fact that mother sees merit in this sort of behaviour just reinforces the fact that mother has an IQ in inverse proportion to the size of her airbags…
Anyway, the main travesty is that I, the Destroyer, the self-proclaimed Sultan of Stubble racing am not so much as allowed to put my shoeless sole onto spiky stubble while the boy blunder is allowed to walk (WALK?! Who in all creation WALKS in a stubble field?!) across acres of golden good times. I, the slayer of stressage, am having to do endless, endless, endless circles like a turtle with a flipper missing, while the piebald pain in my posterior gets to go hacking. Life is royally unfair.
Talking of unfair, how come no-one told me that there was a party down at Burghley at the weekend? I understand that many of my besties were not there and I can only put that fact down to the fact they didn’t have steeds capable of doing Burghley the way I would do it; which let’s face it, no one can. I can only assume they felt too embarrassed to pick up the phone and ask if I was free, but Mary, Emily et al, I would have come. I can promise you I will always take you around courses such as Burghley in a way never seen before…
I was chuffed for my friend Sarah Bullion who I met the other year at Your Horse is Alive and for my other mate Mark Todd to get such an awesome send off as he retires from eventing. Having met me at Belton last year, I can totally understand how he took the decision that his career had totally hit a high point and thus, it was better to go out at that state. He is only human after all.
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Hovis’ Friday Diary: a plan so cunning you could have put a tail on it
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Talking of only being human, I have apparently caused yet more angst to my human this week after the boss lady found a tiny amount of puss at the sight of the hole in my soggy sole. Mother’s wail of despair could be heard from Manchester, but thankfully Cool New Shoes Man managed to intervene before she could have a full on meltdown and assured her that he was expecting this following the execution of the plan “of such cunningness the fox is asking for lessons”. Mother apparently has to video my foot and any “oozing” over the weekend such that CNSM can assess; I’m starting to wonder if he hasn’t got some sort of foot fetish…
So, I’m off to try not to ooze (I don’t want to be the star of any form of dodgy video thank you very much) and to plot just how I might get to set hoof on hallowed stubble before they harrow them all. Suggestions of ideas more than welcome.
Laters,
Hovis
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