Dear diary,
Thank you for the many suggestions after last week’s entry asking where I should focus my attentions next. I agree I could probably do a much better job of running this country, and indeed a knighthood should be on its way, but I do think the suggestion of leading the synchronised swimming team had an accompanying drip of sarcasm? I am a land horse not a sea horse peoples, and how would I write my own diary underwater? Get back into the real world, eh…?
Anyways, back here in the real world, it’s fair to say that my moment of mega-stardom is over and normal service has resumed. Cool New Shoes Man came on Friday to do me and the ginger whinger and spent a lot of time discussing with the mothership how slimlined Barbie boy is, how I could do with being on a diet and the numerous ways that my time on this planet is likely to come to an end. While I stood there… I mean, literally, I was right there.
Firstly pot belly, kettle to the pair of them. CNSM is looking in show condition to put it mildly and the mothership – well the term “walking laminitis case” would apply if she could walk without a) limping and b) without looking like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Or in mother’s case, pizza…
Standing at the wrong angle I may possibly, to the short sighted look like I may have put on a few pounds, but that’s only because I haven’t given any to Herman The German Needle Man of late. Pounds to be clear before you gutted minded individuals start sniggering in your cereal. Needless to say, Crazy Self Employed lady was called and I am now more restricted than a Russian Oligarch. I might actually see grass again sometime next spring, but then who knows.
Barbie Boy on the other hand was seen as very slender. I didn’t like to point out the blindingly obvious which is he’s only 12.2hh so a LOT smaller than me, in EVERY way, and also has severe PMT so mother keeps him in shape to avoid having to pay alarming amounts of money to the vets to make sure his insulin levels don’t reach higher numbers than his IQ…
Mother and CNSM clearly then felt they had done enough to ensure I starve to death for the rest of the year and turned their attention to my age and various joints and a long winded discussion as to whether I am fit to face another winter. Well not if you starve me to death first no, peoples. Thankfully the unanimous decision was I am in fine fettle for my age and ailments, which made me heave a sigh of relief – only one mind, because then CNSM proceeded to give his view on what was going to cause me to shuffle off my mortal coil and how he and Herman have a code word and grab bags ready to sprint to the airport when THAT phone call comes in. WHILE I WAS STOOD THERE! Seriously. This conversation was wrong on more levels than a lift in a brothel.
And this is what it comes to. One week you’re the toast of the nation, celebrated chef de squeak, self-proclaimed saviour of British equestrianism and the next you have to stand and listen to a view on how long before you’re actual toast. To be clear, the view is quite some considerable time before anyone panics – I mean like mother might actually slim down to double digits before then, that’s how long we’re talking, but it’s the principle of the matter.
I am currently ringing around my eventing chicklets and seeing if any of them has a spare stable going. Surely my talents will still be appreciated by someone?
Laters,
Hovis
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