Dear Diary
Well my run of being in mum’s good books didn’t last that long, although I am not as much as in her bad books as the cause of her being upset.
Last week on Friday it was revealed I was indeed going to a party with Aunty Becky on the Sunday. So we practised a bit of dressage and did some jumping — I tolerated the dressage and leapt about like a gazelle on steroids when it came to the jumping. I had a fab time, mum was happy and Aunty Becky was very excited about the weekend. The Destroyer was set to ride forth once more.
On Saturday, mum gave me the day off and bathed me within an inch of my life — I was so white and fluffy I could have been a body double for Shaun the sheep. I tolerated this due to my excitement about going jumping again, but I did draw the line when mum wondered about talcing my legs.
Once was quite enough and so I got hold of the offensive bottle and launched it across the stables. Unfortunately, this did cause a white cloud to envelop both mother and I — leading to me looking rather like I’d been enjoying a wild night on the old Columbian marching powder…
So Sunday dawned bright and sunny, Aunty Becky arrived and gave me that ridiculous hairdo that she favours (seriously people? Plaits? I am a MAN!) — and off we tootled to the venue. Well, when I say tootled I do mean figuratively and in doing so will skim over the incident with the skip, the cones, the car, the bike and possibly the road sign. They are not relevant to my story and as such I do not need to give them column inches. Ahem…
Anyway all was well, Aunty Becky warmed me up, and I trotted briskly into the dressage box on the floor. I briefly considered playing chicken with the judge, wistfully eyed-up the jumps and decided the pain was not worth the moment of pleasure I would obtain from watching the aforementioned judges life flash before their eyes. So I didn’t.
Anyway, we came to do our first canter transition on a ridiculously tight circle and “pow” — I went ouch and it was game over again. Aunty Becky waved that we’d had enough and we left with our tail literally between our legs. Mindful of keeping me moving gently Aunty Becky walked me about and I began to feel better. So much so, that when she wandered back into the warm up, I spied the jump and carted her from one end of the arena to the other — sailing over the jump like Milton on a pogo stick.
Now clearly baffled, Aunty Becky asked me if I wanted to try to go jumping. And I did. I really did. But when we got in there, I hurt again so Aunty Becky said no and took me out again. All-in-all, we were both very upset. Aunty Becky cried. I did not — but only because I am a man and men don’t cry.
Cue a worried phone call to mum who high-tailed it from a day out with the in-laws to be by my side. She watched me move and agreed with Aunty Becky that I didn’t look right at all. Such was her concern, the next day she rang Herman the German needle man — who was clearly concerned that a future star of the British eventing team could be in trouble — dropped everything and came to see me the following day. Mum was back working in Scotland, where I understand she has paced a furrow in the office floor of the client she’s working with. Over dramatic — that’s my mother…
Anyway the upshot is after a set of x-rays — I have the fetlocks of a baby horse but I have bony changes in my foot so Herman wants to nerve block me. What this entails I know not, but I swear I heard him tell mum over the phone he’s going to need to shave my legs. I’m not sure I’m too happy about this but mum was so upset she agreed. Which is charming as they’re my legs and I’m quite attached to my feathers.
So we shall see what happens next — mum is beside herself and Herman the German needle man and Cool New Shoes Man are both trying to calm her down. So if you could spare any vibes I’d be grateful — not for me you understand (I am a stoic manly type) but more for mum and more importantly the life of that client’s carpet…
Laters
Hovis
