Dear Diary
I write this as my halo shines out so brightly across the Lincolnshire countryside, I am worried about blinding the Red Arrows. Yes people, the unbelievable, awe inspiring, totally awesome fact is for one brief shining moment in time — I am in mother’s GOOD books!
It started out when she decided to work me on Friday morning whilst the small thing that pulls my whiskers was at nursery. To be fair I was in a pretty mellow mood and having given Aunty Becky a touch of the run around on and off all week (including a hilarious session of her riding in a jump position with stirrups so short she looked like a pretzel perched on a drum) — I was feeling charitable towards my slightly tired looking mother.
So even by my standards I did some very nice work — soft, on the contact, in an outline, poncy stuff that I usually make her lose 12 pounds of sweat in achieving and all without her having to question my parentage once. I don’t know who was the more surprised — mother or the two pigeons who like to sit on the fence watching me who normally get a masterclass in how many swear words can be strung together without pausing for breath…
Anyway the next day mother rocked back up again in chipper mood and having clearly been at a bottle of that confidence stuff again. This became evident when the high-vis vest went on accompanied by her determined “I-can-do-this-and-am-not-really-wetting-myself” face. I did briefly look about for a wingman before accepting that mother was clearly on a mission to prove she and I can go it alone.
Sans wingman.
At harvest time.
Someone help me as my mother is clearly nuts.
Anyway off we went down the back track of terror where I may have nearly blotted my copy book within a hundred metres of the stables. What can I say? I’m sure that scarecrow wasn’t there last time I looked and it looked VERY lifelike. Luckily mother’s limpet like tendencies have improved tenfold over the years and no unscheduled dismounts were experienced. We continued down around the stubble fields, along the road and then back through more stubble fields and I can smugly report I didn’t put one huge feathery foot wrong.
Not even when a dive-bombing pheasant launched out of the hedgerow like a royal marine on a promise. I was so chilled, mother even stopped singing ‘ten green bottles’ (her default “I’m-poo-scared-and-trying-not-to-be” song). A result for which I’m pretty sure the neighbourhood wildlife are buying me a medal. Let’s put it this way mother’s singing talent makes her riding ability look like Charlotte What’s-her-face.
Needless to say when we got back to the yard mother was beaming from ear-to-ear and I expected (and received) a bucket load of treats. All-in-all a good day. One which we promptly repeated the next day just to prove it wasn’t a fluke. I should point out I still reserve the right to take over all decisions on direction and speed of travel in the event of a life threatening incident. Such incidents include (but are not limited to):
- All things that will get me
- All things that might get me
- All things I think look dodgy
To thank me for my amazing acts of bravery, mother gave me a bath, washed my feathers until I looked like a puff ball on legs and got a little bit too hands on with my Hovis sausage. Needless to say I stopped that little situation before it really started and she backed off muttering something about sedation — for her or me I wasn’t too sure?
I had a brief moment of excitement when I thought the new Burghley winner (and don’t thing I didn’t notice my lack of invite AGAIN) Mr Knickerless was coming to get me. The arrival of a large lorry down the road with pictures of pants on it told me all I needed to know, and my bags were packed I can tell you. Until the dream killing mothership told me it was a lost lingerie lorry. I hang onto my eternal hope but to be honest by the briefest of threads…
I’m hoping Aunty Becky might take me out jumping this weekend so we shall see. I shall keep you posted. In the meantime, I shall polish my halo and pray for a big pants lorry to come and get me…
Laters
Hovis
