Dear diary,
OK, we all need to try harder. My GoFundMe page has clearly not raised sufficient funds to buy big enough balls for spring and frankly I think they’ve just given up. We had three days, THREE, where I thought they’d finally got with the programme. Admittedly they clearly had massive flatulence as well as the wind was worthy of the morning after a madras, but I could have lived with that as it meant the fields were drying out.
But no.
Three days later and it’s tiddling it down more than a sneezing sexagenarian with questionable pelvic floor muscles; even Tena Lady plus might give up this fight (other wee wee pants are available). Honestly, we are back to being wetter than the inside of an otter’s pocket and spring is back to having as much booiinngg as an elephant wearing concrete wellies. News flash – winter is winning here folks and is showing staying power equivalent to a 21-year-old playboy bunny without a prenup.
The weekend saw Crazy Self-Employed Lady have the weekend off to go and do some big competition (purple potato or something?) so the mothership and her loyal, but totally non-horsey better half, were in charge. This meant rations of a size that wouldn’t keep a sparrow alive, mother moaning about my stable habits and a tall tentative Scotsman having to have mano-y-mano conversations about not accidentally grabbing my man tackle while doing up my “outside jacket” – his words not mine. The mothership had allocated me to him as apparently the pint-sized pain in the posterior would have extracted the urine and I was deemed the safer of the two options. Him and I have long since established his role versus mine in the pecking order of my mother’s affections, so we are cool and I saved jumping in the really big puddle until mother was walking me, thus drenching her in muddy water all down her side, her legs, her substantial rear and her even bigger air bags.
Due to the aforementioned lack of moral fibre shown by spring and my inability to levitate, I came in somewhat filthy and in need of a bath, which then resulted in an hour of comedy as mother shoved me, her dearly beloved, some shampoo and a scrubbing brush into the shower room with the advice of “pretend he’s just a large, hairy car”. Sixty minutes later and both of us were reconsidering our life choices, although I suspect one of us more than the other…
By the Sunday, mother was so crippled by her back and general lack of ability to cope with physical labour (she’s management darling, not manual) that the uneducated could have assumed that a human crab had come to sort me out. As the likelihood of her straightening up without mechanical help was unlikely, I had an amusing few minutes sticking my head up in the air, thus making the headcollar onto head physics impossible. I thought I was funny. On reflection, and careful consideration of the choice words she called me, I’m coming around to the idea she didn’t…
She was last seen crawling out of the barn muttering that CSEL is worth every penny she pays her and she could afford to pay for the spinal deformity surgery she needs if she hadn’t rebuilt an ungrateful, empty headed oaf from the hooves upwards. I thought that was a little harsh – I’m sure ginge has a brain in there somewhere?
Anyway, I am off to stare forlornly back out over a sea of mud, which for one brief moment over the weekend, was actually dry. Dig deeper into your pockets peoples, we need to buy even bigger balls…
Laters,
Hovis
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