Dear diary,
I think its official, I have pushed Mum to breaking point and she can take no more. I am DOOMED. She’s now talking about “sharing” me, which I can only assume is some fluffy way of saying she’s going to cut me into small pieces and have a BBQ. Hovis burger anyone? “Sharing” means that someone gets one bit of me and someone else gets another bit, doesn’t it? And I sort of need all my bits to do my thing. So, dearest diary, this could be my last entry before my legs are in four different counties and my head is in someone’s bed…
Anyway, one might ask what has led to Mum wanting to share me. Well, that sort of, kind of, might have been my fault. On Saturday, Aunty Sam couldn’t ride me in the morning so Mum took me into the school for an hour. What can I say? It was hot, dusty and I plain just didn’t want to be a dressage fairy, so yes I did stamp my feet in protest and might possibly have made my mum work hard enough to make her sweat like a racehorse at a fast food outlet. This did mean she called my parentage into question fluently, and without pausing for breath, for at least 45min while we did battle over the small matter of working in an outline and generally not moving like a carthorse pulling a hearse.
As usual, the fluency of Mother’s swearing was only matched by her steely determination and the liberal application of the schooling whip. So once again Mother was ultimately triumphant. May I just point out though that I KNOW I can look like one of those poofy equine ballerinas when I want to (minus the tutu, I’m far too manly). I KNOW I can perform all the moves Mother and the boss lady want me to do and I KNOW I can be so light in Mum’s hands she barely knows I’m there. I merely exert my equine right to CHOOSE when I want to do these things.
On Saturday it became clear that Mother wasn’t going to give in, so I chose to do it before Mother had me riding around the school until midnight. Mother may have looked smug when she left, but then it’s easy to look smug when you’ve not yet realised you’re wearing horse snot down the backs of both legs…
On Sunday Aunt Sam took me out hacking and there may have been a slight incident involving the steel octopus, the irrigator, a large ditch and a bridge. Just a slight disagreement over the utter insanity of trying to pussy foot over a tangled web of pipes, over the edge of a precipice. This was not Entrapment and I am not Catherine Feta Bones in a skin-tight catsuit. It was a stupid idea. In the end Aunt Sammie did seem to realise this and got off to lead me past said objects which was most sensible. Trotting off while she’d got one foot back in the stirrup and one foot still on the ground was perhaps less so. Especially as she told Mum, the snitch.
So this combined with my high-speed antics over the tractors the other week has led Mum to believe I need more work than I’m getting and she needs to find a sharer. How I am going to get any more work when I’m in pieces is currently a question which is baffling me. I shall keep you posted for as long as I am still able to type.
In other news, Mum and I have won a competition at Mum’s work and raised another £500 for Bransby Horses. I am doing something wrong I tell you. I give them all the money from my two literary works of genius, I appear for them at shows and things and now give them another £500 and I don’t get so much as a carrot for myself. Mum says raising money for charity is good for the soul — my soul doesn’t need carrots Mother, my belly does.
Apparently if we win the next round we get even more money for the charity, but Mum doesn’t think that we will win. I’m not sure what we’ve had to do because I’ve not had to jump over anything (boo hiss) or ponce around in circles wafting talc off my snowy white feathers (thank god), but whatever it was it got some much needed funds for the poor ponies and horses at Bransby Horses.
One day someone might donate something to the poor horse that is me. I don’t need money — carrots, treats and mares with low morals will be just fine.
Yours,
“Halo wearing” Hovis
