Dear diary,
It’s day 978 billion of the human strangles epidemic and frankly, if something doesn’t get the humans out of our manes soon, then I’m all for building a boat from bailing twine and buckets and legging it to a remote island.
The saving grace of coming back from a nearly life-ending injury is mother has not at yet commenced the inevitable lungeing in which I’m supposed to travel round in sedate circles with the daintiness of a painted carousel pony (i.e. looking like I have a stick wedged up my ass). Whereas the reality is more akin to me zooming around her personage like the illegitimate offspring of The Flash and a Las Vegas Chorus girl (think high legs and lots of attitude, but less sequins and feathered headgear — more death race than drag race), while she screams abuse at me like a Belfast fishwife. Apparently, the weather and thus the ground is too unpredictable at the moment and “once we start, we are not going to stop” — which is pretty much mother’s approach to every biscuit packet I’ve ever seen…
So, while I am being spared the horror of mother’s return to work plan for at least the short term, while the school fluctuates between prancing on ice or synchronised swimming, I am not spared the “bonding” of grooming and “spending quality time together”. For the love of God, I’ve had to put up with this incompetent muppet for 15 long long years — have I not suffered enough? As I haven’t been clipped this year (see previously mentioned near dying episode — it plays havoc with a boys hairdressing appointments) I am, by my normal standards, extremely fluffy. Mother prefers another F word — feral — which is as uncharitable as me pointing out that from my height, her roots look like landing strip for a 747 and her moustache is longer than mine. But then I have always been a) the more restrained b) the more dignified and c) far more able to pull off a ‘tache with panache…
Despite all this, mother decided that while it is now too late to stop me shedding enough coat off my body to create 6ft high hair drifts every time I so much as breath, coating the surrounding area in a light dusting of ginger with the clinging nature of a wrong direction fan to Harry Styles’ left leg, she could perhaps do something about my facial hair. Now to be clear, she wasn’t meaning my whiskers because she is in total agreement with the ruling that this is indeed mutilation, but more the thick and very long fur that has Tom Hanks realising his castaway look was a half arsed job. So out came the scissors. At which point I seriously considered vaulting my stable door like a cuckolded Colin Jackson with fur leg warmers on. While my mother is often compared to a pair of children’s safety scissors (i.e. not too sharp) it doesn’t mean she should actually be allowed to yield anything sharper than a butter knife. While the glint in her eye might be steely, the reality is her hand shakes more than Wesley Snipes’ tax accountant at audit time, and she is holding sharpened implements near to my throat and nose. I haven’t been so scared since the time Herman put on a plastic glove that nigh on came up to his shoulder…
The resulting “do” makes me look like an alpaca with alopecia with the steps up my jawline so defined I could be confused for Machu Picchu from space. Between the fringe, the still slightly green tinged massacred feathers and the stairway to heaven up my cheekbones, frankly I’m actually on the verge of asking if anyone has a hood I can borrow. I’d rather look like a low rent Batman than put up with Barbie boy rolling on the floor laughing; if he wets himself any more, I’m going to start to buy him Tena Lady.
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Hovis makes a plea...
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Mind you, he wasn’t quite so cocky having come back from a hack this week (the joys of half-term mean that mini-mother is on a riding mission) having bumped into a JCB, three tractors and no less than five MAMILs with only the blubbership as a wingwoman. It appears he doesn’t possess my lightening fast reflexes and highly attuned survival tendencies and thus hasn’t thrown mini-mother under the wheels of said tractors and legged it back home faster than Usain Bolt on a promise and instead had “toughed it out”. I’m not sure how much I believe that vs. mother is heavily ballast and he is only small; but to be fair, if he’d been any whiter when he got back, he could have been re-passported as a grey. Suddenly he’s not so dismissive of my tales of hacking horrors — genetics are a dangerous thing and it’s entirely possible mini-mother is as lemming-like as her lineage. Which does at least amuse me — why should I suffer alone?
Anyways, he’s away praying to some dressage deity for a life poncing round like the stressage squirt that he is, while I’m trying to figure a way to graze which doesn’t involve the local wildlife climbing the side of my face like tourists to the Niesen Mountain. If anyone is in possession of a hood or frankly a large sack with eye holes, please can you charitably donate it to the “save my self-esteem” appeal which urgently needs your help. Every minute another vestige of street cred dies — please don’t turn a blind eye (I already have one of those) and help. Please…
Later,
Hovis
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