Dear diary,
Apologies for the lack of diary last week, but the mothership was in India and didn’t bother to send some sort of stand in scribe for her, thus leaving me unable to convey my brilliance via this medium – after I broke the last laptop I’m not allowed another one…
Sadly, the trip to Mum-bye wasn’t a permanent goodbye to mother and like some sort of dogged, broken old boomerang, she’s back, wafting the scent of fly spray, mosquito bites and general exhaustion in a way designed to make those softer-hearted individuals feel sorry for her. Luckily, after nearly 17 years of being saddled (literally and figuratively) with galloping gormless, I am immune to the panda black eyes and faint air of accusation, which mainly centres around an inherent belief she might not have to work so hard if I didn’t enjoy breaking things (mainly bits of me) quite as much as I do…
While she was away, I was fed my Columbian marching powder to get rid of my cough and made to go out hacking with Crazy Boss Lady, who continues to demonstrate both the self-care tendencies of a depressed lemming and the IQ of a plant pot. More and more she insists we go out alone and then seems very surprised when I’m a bit “on my toes”. She has oft been heard quoting that once you figure out what I’m scared of, I am easy to understand. Apparently in her view, this “scared list” is very, very short (which it’s fair to say I agree with): things that move and things that don’t (which it’s fair to say I don’t agree with).
For a start, the worded “scared” implies cowardice and non-manly behaviours, which I frankly have no idea how to even go about displaying. The reality is in fact that I have a finely attuned sense of danger, ninja-like reactions and an absolute belief in saving the ginger-in-the-wrong-light hide I come wrapped in. If to the uneducated that translates as me looking like a giant Scooby Doo in leg-warmers, then I think that says more about them than me…
Tales of me nearly decking CBL by having a “fit” in front of a bus (it wasn’t the bus per se, it was the very dodgy looking man sat in the front – he looked like the horse catcher) and then falling up the curb did reach mother, even on distant shores, so I was subjected to a long “please can you desist in your lifetime ambition to make the list of people who will actually ride you shorter than the number of times I’ve won slimmer of the week” chat. Well ok, she didn’t actually say the last bit, but I think my synopsis is accurate in its intended meaning. I did try and behave this week and CBL did report back that while I wouldn’t stand still for the obligatory “look mother, I’m working” photo, I did at least not try and sacrifice her to the gods of large vehicles.
CBL might have been a bit happier with me, but mother was not, as on Sunday she decided that she would remind herself what sitting on a proper horse was like and take me for a short spin.
Firstly, in my defence, this bright idea involved taking me for a spin around the jumping arena. While there were jumps up.
Which, for one wonderful, shining moment, I thought I might be allowed to hop over.
So, I may possibly, again to the uneducated, have looked more bouncy than Tigger after a blue smartie marathon. I also might possibly, to the impaired of sight, have looked like I wouldn’t stand still for mother to mount. Again, in my defence, waiting for mother to get her leg over is like waiting for rain in the Sahara. There are swing bridges that open faster than mother’s hips and a boy gets fidgety. It’s fair to say, being forced to take a flying leap, legs akimbo, in the vague direction of a moving equine put mother neither in a good mood nor at the head of a list of stunt doubles for blazing saddles…
I’m being allowed some quality time “to reflect” which I am doing a lot of. Reflecting on the amazing life I’m going to have in the next one to make up for being subjected to mother in this one…
Laters,
Hovis
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