Dear diary,
I am amazed to hear of the support I got from far and wide after I wrote in my diary last week about my private hell of being clipped. It appears many people understand my plight although I never will understand how they read my diary? I feel vindicated and violated simultaneously. A weird feeling…
Mum, needless to say, felt vindicated at the weekend when she worked me hard and I didn’t sweat. I tried to point out it was blowing a small gale and therefore any moisture was merely evaporating at high speed but since when does she ever listen to me? I plotted my revenge and did throw in the odd sideways shimmy at what I hoped were inopportune moments but sadly she has got wise to these things over the years (or her substantial bottom gives her greater sticking power..).
But this week has been blighted with sad, sad news. My lovely, potty, ditzy sharer Aunty Becky has got a new job. An amazing new job which is just what she’s always wanted and dreamt of. Why would this make you sad I hear you ask. Shouldn’t you be happy for her? Well the reality is of course I am, but sadly the new job meant her and mum had to have THAT conversation. The conversation that asked the question of whether she could really manage the new job and give me the level of exercise I need during the week to keep me in tip top condition.
>>> Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I am not cute, I am the Destroyer’
Alas they both came to the heartbreaking decision after several amazing years of sharing me that the new career means Aunty Becks is going to have to let me go. She’ll always be a special part of my life and despite her ridiculous desire to turn me into a dressage pony we had an amazing time. She took me cross-country, she jumped me, hacked me, loved me and called me rude names. She accepted me for the genius I am, that I always know best and, bless her, believed me when I said I hadn’t got a clue how to execute rein-back (until mother snitched and told her I was taking the mick). She came to Your Horse is Alive with me, met Mary King with me, came and loved me even when I was poorly and she couldn’t ride me and I will always love the lanky loon.
But the time has come to look for a new sharer to take on the mantel. Mum is apparently drafting my new advert which undoubtedly will be full of boring stuff like I need riding in the week, the person doesn’t need to do jobs, I’m not a novice ride because I’m so strong but I just need confidence over competence (I have to disagree on this point — I can’t go round Burghley with an incompetent rider) and that I’m good at low level “everything”. LOW level? Rio is where I’m headed, baby!
>>> Hovis’ Friday diary: On a collision course
Anyway, I would rather draft my own advert which would focus on the far more important elements of my new sharer relationship:
“Handsome, astoundingly talented and world famous 16.2hh feather-powered gelding seeks new pilot to sit aboard while he powers to victory, seeks rider who totally understands their role in the relationship i.e. because I can’t count and silly rules mean I have to have a rider to enter these competitions. They are to be a passive passenger while I sort us out because no one knows how to go around a cross-country course the way I do. Stressage hating rider preferred who understands that flat work is the bit between jumps is a necessity. A carrot farmer or those with shares in a carrot company would be advantageous. Seeking someone who loves hacking but who doesn’t think that going out without a wingman is smart. In return I promise to be the most fun you’ve ever sat on, a gymkhana pony in 16.2hh of manly muscle, honest, safe, sane, loving and with the biggest brown eyes you’ve ever seen”.
>>> Hovis’ Friday diary: Pondering a move to Barbados
Applicants can contact mum, but be warned mum and Aunty Becky think they’re going to “vet” people. I silently remembered how I got rid of several potentials last time by pretending I couldn’t canter and laughed that either of them think they’re going to have any say in the matter…
I’m off to await the flood of applications.
Laters,
Hovis
