Dear diary,
This week was supposed to be a nice quiet one with she-who-must-be-obeyed away in Mum-bye, but clearly Aunty Em didn’t get the memo and has been lungeing and riding me in-between Mother Nature’s latest strops, to the extent I am starting to have grave concerns about a secret plan to slim me down to the size of a thoroughbred…
Mother is back next week, so I am thus expecting many, many hours of transitions in the school in which I maintain I identify as a slightly curvaceous giraffe and mother maintains that self-head carriage was part of the terms and conditions, while loudly telling the voyeuristic pigeons, who sit on the school fence like two fat, feathery strictly come prancing judges, that my dam and sire weren’t married…
Mother Nature’s latest strop did briefly have me excited, although slightly embarrassed, about the implications of Aunty Em’s moral standing; sadly storm “whore-hay” was something of a disappointment, bringing neither moral-less mares nor indeed any hay — well, unless the high speed blur that blew across my field like Formula One tumble weed was indeed hay…
Instead we once again faced down winds, which were severe enough to incite previously passive trampolines into savage roaming packs of horse killers, while praying to the god of l’Oreal to please think I’m still worth it when my barnet resembles a startled porcupine. My backside cannot remember a time when it wasn’t wet and wild, while ballast has been required for Barbie Boy to prevent take off every time a gust of wind gets underneath his rug. While I would be highly amused to see a Barbie Blimp, I do have to acknowledge that mini-mother might be a trifle upset. Although to be fair, not as upset as I am that she keeps taking pretty pony to Pony Club. As I stated the other week, I am very tempted to make a serious stand against this den of devious discrimination — why, if you’re a squeaky, squealy short arse, are you allowed to have your own club, but if you’re a superhero horse you’re not? Forget “me too” this is “We three”. Someone has to stamp it out and frankly people, I’m looking for you to get behind me on this; we’re breeding a generation of pony biased, discriminating delinquents. The cult-like behaviours of this “pony club” should be sending alarm bells to every horse in the country — not to mention the fact Pony Club games sounds sort of fun and I don’t see why I can’t hurtle between poles just as well as any petite prancing pony. I might be a large unit, but I have the delicacy of a hippo in a tutu. So join me people and neigh #PCiswee.
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The plus side (well sides, as honestly, there are quite a few) of mum being away is that the boss lady is far more sophisticated than the hefty heathen hairball (i.e. mother) when it comes to the arts and thus, her appreciation of my interpretive modern dance, as I express my desire to come inside to the dry and warmth of my stable. Unlike mother, who wilfully ignores my artistic expression until I have reached a level of escalation from River Prance to Las Vegas chorus line and my knees are up my nostrils, the boss lady fetches me in while I’m still at the gentile level of a ceilidh at the local Womens’ Institute, which in turns leads to a mutually admiring saunter in from the field, rather than mother who is treated to a free water skiing session, so keen am I to get in. Net net, I’ve been in the barn with a hay net and my PJs on by mid-afternoon most of this past week — marvellous! Just wish mum was staying mum-byed for longer — I like this arrangement…
So I’m off to enjoy my last day of being treated the way I wish to be treated before she-who-thinks-I-am-a-horse-and-should-toughen-up returns. Do you think I could pull off a house coat? Just wondering…
Laters,
Hovis
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