Dear Diary
So, operation “Retirement-is-not-an-option-so-get-over-it-you-large-planet-polluting-methane-producer” (mother hasn’t heeded the less is more suggestion regarding operation names) continues at a pace. Well when I mean “continues at a pace”, I mean I continue to walk at a pace which means mother has to adopt a half run/half jog-style gait making her resemble the love child of Brian May and Pingu…
As she was bobbling along beside me at the weekend, with her fat little legs going like two sausages strapped to a piston pump, I did ponder why she doesn’t thank me for the endless opportunities I give her for personal development instead of constantly assaulting my ears with a barrage of abuse. Her fitness is improving as she is forced to speed walk alongside me like a duck with diarrhoea, her financial management is improving as she figures out how to survive on the £1.50 she has left of her salary after she has paid the monthly instalments for the swimming pool at Herman Towers, her cooking skills are improving as she figures out 101 things to do with bargain bin beans and well, I’m not sure I want to know what skills she’s had to improve to keep the bank manager sweet…
Why she isn’t more grateful I honestly don’t know – but then the inner workings of my mother’s mind is a mystery best left undisturbed, like an Egyptian tomb; both full of a decrepit mummy and both probably cursed…
Unfortunately, the hours of endless amusement watching mother try to walk me out in hand are about to come to an end, as word has come through that my new saddle has apparently arrived. Which means many more hours of endless amusement as mother tries valiantly to follow the instructions of Herman the German Needle Man whilst on board. Now to be fair to him the last time he suggested that I could go out for “short hacks quietly in walk” the look she gave him would have made that Elsa chick look positively toasty so I don’t think he will even try suggesting it again. But then again this is Herman so who knows? To be fair Cool New Shoes Man has on occasion suggested that he might like to “have a go” at some point so I can see mother suggesting there’s no time like the present – not too sure he’d be go-pro-ing that although I’m sure the Hovite Army would love to see it…
Mild sedation was offered as a solution to my supposed inability to hack in a manner commensurate with my age and implied maturity, but I never did fathom whether this was to be used on me or mother? As my lady love and questionable wing-woman is now living the retired life of Riley, I am also going to have to find new hacking buddy/equine sacrifice to the tractors of terror. Any volunteers? Essential skills for the role include a talent for freestyle interpretive dance, an ability to spook violently sideways in any direction (ideally over something seen a thousand times before without incident to improve the chances of dislodging ones rider), one cruising speed (ideally a fast choppy jog which delights the neighbourhood males as mother’s airbags bounce up and down like two ferrets fighting in a bag) and ideally a nice rump for me to erm, well you know, look admiringly at when the scenery is boring. Being unphased by being thrown under the literal and metaphorical bus in the face of tractors and/or MAMILs (Middle Aged Men in Lycra) is a definite bonus also. Just sayin’…
All applicants can send their resumes and a covering letter to my manager (i.e. mother) and I will make my choices over the next week.
Laters,
Hovis
