Dear diary,
It’s a minor miracle that I can even write this today, a testament to my determination to not let any of you down, to ensure that my little Friday “pick me up” is delivered to the Hovite Army and all the rest of you loons.
I am so cold my hooves are nearly fusing to the laptop, my shivering is so intense that it looks like my teeth are doing the jive on my jawline, I have so many goosebumps that I’ve become an entry on Countryfile‘s ornithological feature. In essence I am FREEZING.
Now mother takes the view that I am a) Not a wimpy Thoroughbred (and she is right I am a MAN not a skinny, interbred excuse for a equine) and b) that I have enough fat to ensure that I can survive these positively Arctic conditions (she is of course VERY wrong on this — I am a shadow of the man I should be). The upshot of both of these elements being that she forces me to go out in these evil conditions. Admittedly with a rug on, with a big neck piece, but that’s totally beside the point. I should be in bed with a big duvet, a large haynet and a hot blooded female of dubious morals and a lot of energy. Now THAT’S the way you should spend winter days, not shivering your admittedly large ginger-ish-in-the-wrong-light bottom off.
Last weekend she went a step further and made me run around NAKED in sub-zero conditions. NAKED. There should be a law against this sort of thing. Particularly as she had so many layers on she looked like the marshmallow man’s American cousin after a lock in at Dennys (other fast food outlets are available). So she’s wrapped up like human cannelloni and I’m naked. How is this in any way an equal relationship?
I, in fairness, then proceeded to take my revenge by rampaging around her like a bull with piles, displaying levels of athletiscm normally reserved for grand prix dressage horses and Las Vegas chorus girls.
When it became clear that I was not amusing mother nor was Britney Spear’s looking for new backing dancers I did settle down and reluctantly did some work that did elicit the seldom heard words of “good boy” out of she-who-must-be-obeyed.
Despite the cold temperatures I was admittedly sweating like mouse in a cattery by the time I’d finished so mother wrapped me up in one of my posh Thermatex rugs and let me chill out while she cleaned out my stable like the good slave she is.
The next day mini-mother came in tow and started squawking about riding me. I like mini-mother sitting on me — for a start she weighs less than one of real mother’s substantial thighs, she’s always happy to see me, she doesn’t care if I wipe snot down her back and as long as I go forwards she doesn’t care what leg I’m on. Mother could learn a lot from her offspring.
Mother did cause mini-mother to have a total meltdown because she wouldn’t let her ride on me back from the fields as she doesn’t have a proper riding hat and there’s concrete. I can therefore see said hat being bought in the very near future and the very serious job of teaching mini-mother to ride commencing. I am very much looking forward to this a) for all the reasons above and b) the child learning to ride means Pony Club and Pony Club means Pony Club camps and Pony Club camp means doe eyed adoring ponies and well *cough* you get the idea. I will even take them a box to stand on…
Aunty H says mum has to buy mini-mother a proper pony but what on earth would she want one of them for? She has ME! I can do Pony Club mounted games. Admittedly anything that requires mini-mother mounting and dismounting may need some thought but I can always channel my inner camel and get down on all fours? Mini-mother seems to be on the same wavelength because she did tell mother that ponies weren’t proper horses and she had me. She might barely reach my knees but the kid talks sense.
Anyway I’m off to practise my camel moves, possibly do some star jumps to warm up and ponder a move to Barbados.
Laters,
Hovis
