Dear diary,
I’m writing this from in hiding after my missive last week led to an awful lot of people wanting me lynched and strung up for being anti-Christmas. A lot of people also implied I was a Karen, which was very confusing as I am not Karen, my mother is Karen? I iz confuddled. To deal with this immense reaction, I am organising a search party to look for the UK’s sense of humour, as well as installing an early warning detection system for irony. I am assuming the current bad weather meant that the steady drip of sarcasm wasn’t heard, but I am scared to hack out for fear of finding out there’s now a price on my head, which may lead to surprise attacks by bounty hunting bunnies…
Mind you, it is less hacking at the moment and more long-distance swimming. I have never known it so wet. We are on clay soil and the amount of water is only being added to every time mother sobs hysterically at the state of my feathers; the water table is higher than mother’s debt and, in common with it, continues to rise. We have puddles vaster than the Hurd Deep and so much surface water lying around that any equine under 14hh has been put into life vests just to get to the fields.
The fields themselves are black quagmires only suitable for tough mudder events or hiding the corpses of those who don’t have a sense of humour. I’ve been mainly banned from mine as (and here I quote) me “and my clod hopping feet are trashing it”. I would like someone to tell me exactly what I’m supposed to do here? Levitate? I am led to believe my mother did at one point have a brain cell and did study physics, so why she cannot grasp the idea that 750kg of pure equine muscle will sink into ground which has the solidity and stability of a government back bench I have zero idea. I don’t mean to damage my grass, but I have to stand on something to be able to eat it. I considered lying down to even out my weight, but seeing her reaction to the feather situation gave me the hint she might have a full on Britney-style breakdown if I adopted that practice.
As a result, the two women in my life (mother and Crazy Self-Employed Lady) have devised operation “save the grass”, which seems to involve me being turned out on the all-weather with hay while staring at the grass from a distance. They both seem pleased with their plan which “will make the grass go further”. Go further where? Away from me? Grass re-grows peoples, but if I waste away, I will not…
I attempted to explain this rather difficult concept to the mothership the other day through the medium of modern dance; admittedly my timing might have been a little off as mini-mother was jumping the ginger whinger at the time, and so put out was he by all eyes being on me as I pirouetted around the all-weather turnout, that he misjudged a fence and had to do a vertical take off only rivalled by the Eurofighter. In fairness to mini-mother, her seat is both much smaller and much stronger than her mother’s so they didn’t actually part company, but she did let loose with a barrage of expressions which removed all doubt as to whose daughter she is. Mother similarly let loose at me, questioning my ancestry, parent’s marital state and the relative loneliness of my single brain cell. Clearly a fine grasp of basic Anglo-Saxon runs firmly in the genes…
So I’m off to stare longingly at the grass I might be allowed back on some time in spring 2024, hide from the lynch parties for being the equine grinch and pray for it to stop raining.
A Merry Christmas it is not.
Laters,
Hovis
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