Dear diary,
You will all be pleased to know that just like Boris, mother is still clinging on to survival like a fat fighter to the last After Eight at a work event. This is not because mother has found any form of talent in terms of being able to ride, but more the fact that the weekend saw massive storms which blew mother’s hair around to the extent Dougal from the Magic Roundabout is suing her for identify theft, and made riding more of a danger sport that it normally is.
Mother was also diverted from even entertaining the idea – and she did briefly entertain it, you can tell with her – by me doing a very impressive, expressive dance routine entitled “electric avenue” after the electric fence blew free off the top rail and was waving about like an octopus at a rave. The problem was that top rail was really the only thing containing my ginger girlfriend as the bottom rail presents no challenge to a lady of her athletic capability. I clearly helpfully told her the top rail was off after I manfully pointed out the danger and did not (despite mother’s version of events) throw all females into the path of the sparky string and leg it at high speed back to the yard while spooking at every moving branch.
Mother was hot footing it back to my girl when she cleared the bottom rail with the ease with which I can put mother into her overdraft (the mare not mother, to be clear — mother couldn’t jump start a Nissan Micra, let alone jump an electric fence) and proceeded to go for a jolly little jaunt around the yard and fields. This left mother having little choice but to race after her – and again here I have to point out I do occasionally use artistic licence as watching a decrepit, fat fur ball in wellies waddle after 17hh of finely tuned turbo warmblood is not going to have ITV wanting to show it instead of the 3.30 from Chepstow. Thankfully, the wind did at least make it very difficult to distinguish the expletives, but I do believe there was a lengthy (and one sided) debate about why people don’t like ginger mares…
By the time mother had caught my errant girlfriend and sorted out Barbie Boy, who was clearly concerned that his blonde barnet was getting blown about to the extent he looked like a Johnson doppelganger, riding was thankfully off the agenda. At least for the time being anyway…
The reprieve in riding didn’t translate to a reprieve in anything else, so on Sunday I was wormed and groomed to within an inch of my life by a clearly bored mother, who was thrilled to have her hair care regime extended to include wormer. Well, I am sure she was thrilled when she noticed – if you’ve ever seen “Something about Mary” then yeah. She looked like that. I find myself hilarious…
This week was her birthday, so friends and family have flocked to her side to console her and help her to accept she’s one step closer to the knacker’s yard. Its fair to say 21 is a long, long way in her rear view mirror, along with single figure dress sizes and being able to go more than 30 minutes without needing a pee. I’m not saying she’s really old, but when she has to spin the dials to select her year of birth on online forms, people shout “last bets please”..
Anyway, I’m off to hide in case her new older age status has translated into some ridiculous desire to prove she’s still got what it takes and she views me as a suitable vehicle to prove this.
Laters,
Hovis
Hovis’ Friday diary: I’m a medical miracle – not a lazy, work-shy layabout!
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