Dear diary,
Well, I live to survive another week – well, at least one in which I have neither been knocked unconscious by sneaky vets nor mutilated by my feather murdering mother.
On Saturday, Cool New Shoes Man came to see me along with Cool New Shoes Man Junior, who frankly now is tall enough and mature enough to take the Cool New Shoes Man title and consign his old man to CNSM Senior. And after his little issue with forgetting to make my shoes, perhaps it ought to be CNSM Senior Moment…
I prefer CNSM Junior – he doesn’t turn puce when I give him a cuddle (clearly embarrassment is not something he suffers from), nor get all breathy and fan girly when I snuggle in. He also allows me to rub my itchy bits all over him (my head I hasten to add, you pervy weirdos) without moaning about broken ribs or white hairs. CNSM meanwhile spent a huge amount of time moaning about the fact my feet were like iron and falling over laughing at the state of my butchered legs. Mother has a huge amount of answer for. We have at least fixed the huge crack in my back foot, which was met with hysteria from the Crazy Boss Lady and indifference from my uncaring mothership, but that in itself was a double-edged sword because now it’s fixed, CBL is back to deciding hacking alone is a “good” idea.
I do worry about her. I mean, on the surface she seems great – athletic, great rider, very knowledgeable in every field. But somewhere along the line I do have to assume she’s had something, or someone drop on her head because honestly, this obsession with going out hacking alone is just ridiculous. She is clearly a non-believer in Darwin’s Theory of Evolution is all I can say – honestly, I’ve seen depressed lemmings less keen to throw themselves off a cliff than she is to throw herself in harm’s way. Which wouldn’t be an issue. I mean, she’s a grown ass adult and she can do as she likes. Where I get upset is when she’s keen to throw herself in harm’s way aboard the most under-appreciated, undiscovered equine talent this side of the Irish Sea. To be clear, I mean me…
This week’s near brush with death came as we went around the local village, ALONE, and came across a man laying horse traps alongside the carriageway. He was beyond brazen about it and was throwing these killer devices out of the back of his truck and spacing them out along the side of the road such that if you managed to escape one then you got eaten by the next one. Suicidal Sally up top was so into the drama of the situation she was merrily videoing our certain doom like some sort of daylight Blair Witch Project, which she then sent to mother, who in turn posted it on my Facebook pages (yes spoiler – we survived…).
Due to her being attached to her phone it was left to me to save us as I affected a frankly brilliant sideways crab-like manoeuvre, such that I could keep my eyes (or at very least the one working one) on the man, the horse traps and the truck while my ninja-like reflexes were also poised from any pincer movements from the rabbit militia, the clouds on legs and the yellow perils. All while trying to hide my shamefully shorn legs. I mean, what the flip flop? How many dangers does a boy have to protect himself from in one go?!
We survived (clearly), but only due to my brilliance – my pilot was about as much use as Stevie Wonder playing I spy.
I am currently to be found hiding in a bush, pondering how bad a boy I have to have been in a previous life to deserve so many doolally females in my life while channeling hair growing vibes to my legs. My life is bigger pants than mother wears – which are HUGE.
Laters,
Hovis
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