Dear diary,
It does finally feel that mother nature has got her act together and that spring might just be springing. Baby clouds on legs are appearing in the fields down the road with more deliveries than the Royal Mail, yellow perils are advancing from all directions and the rabbits are, well doing what rabbits do, with the enthusiasm of the mothership demolishing a family-sized Dairy Milk. Barbie boy is shedding hair like some sort of ginger tide and I’m walking about keeping glued to a wall for fear mother may once again do a hatchet job on the long white cat hairs on my buttocks and long-defunct baby makers. Frankly, the thought of her half bind self, wafting about my nether regions with a pair of scissors is enough to make a eunuch wince, let alone the fact last time she tried to “layer in” her Edward Scissorhand work on my backside, I ended up with what looked like the stairway to heaven up my ass. Honestly, astronauts on the space station had a great time playing the game of “what’s the easiest to see – the great wall of China, the queue of lorries near Dover or Hovis hair ass steps”.
Four years ago, around this time, I was hooning around Belton International Horse Trials with my mate, the queen of eventing, Mary King, with adoring crowds, celebrities hangers on and the press all vying for my attention. This year, I’m hiding from a scissor-wielding psycho with the most excitement being whether mini-mother can get Barbie to wear a pair of “cute” bunny ears for an Easter photo without him throwing an over reaction at the “Britney head shave” end of the spectrum. It’s fair to say at times, my life sucks harder than a leaf blower in reverse.
Spring having sprung does now mean that it’s lighter at both ends of the day, which had led to Aunty Em rousing me from the shavings at an hour so early even the worm hasn’t got up, let alone the bird. We are still doing more walking than anything else, but we have started a bit of the ‘T’ word. With the T word mainly being tripping rather than trotting; it does appear that when Herman the German Needle Man and Cool New Shoes Man saved my life last year, they somehow uncoupled my feet from my brain. Aunty Em uses the word “discombobulated”; Mum uses the word “d***head”, but it’s fair to say I do look a bit like Bambi after a babysham at the minute. I am trying to get my feet and brain realigned but right now they seem to be on slightly different wave lengths – sort of like me and mother.
With this in mind, despite me demonstrating my soundness in my field every time my yard slaves forget the hierarchy around here and take one of the other lesser equines in before me, the mothership has advised that I’m about as likely to get a canter under saddle as she is to get Kate Moss asking for diet tips. Apparently, until I can trot without the risk of burying myself and my rider face first into the new school surface (and the mothership is so high maintenance about her front teeth – apparently, they nearly cost as much as my last IRAP treatment), the ‘C’ word isn’t happening. I would however just like to point out that if we were waiting for mother to pass any basic tests, such as the ability to get her leg over without chemical assistance, then she’d never be allowed to ride again. The woman has double standards as well as a double chin…
So I’m off to give my feet a good talking to, avoid mini-mother putting the bunny ears on me and hide from Mother Scissorhands.
Laters,
Hovis
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