Dear diary,
Dare I say this actually out loud? Perhaps not.
* Whispers * Ok, so who has finally managed to sooth the soul of the crazy weather woman? And more importantly, how? I’m thinking the sacrifice of several Welsh wazzocks and a vat of wine? Am I right?
Whoever you are frankly you deserve a hoofhood. Because this week I’ve actually been out EVERY day! Now admittedly the ground is still stickier than the moments mother tries to reverse park the trailer with an audience watching and I sense Mother Nature is poised on the edge of petulance but heh, I live with my mother so I’m used to slightly unhinged, hormonal women – I’m just glad to be out of my stable.
If I squinted with my good eye, I managed to find the odd bit of the green stuff sticking up in the mud like the last die hard party animals at a particularly muddy Glastonbury and while my feathers are now blacker than mother’s heart it was so worth it – freedom tasted great. We are all longingly eyeing the summer fields which are a) not muddy and b) FULL of grass, but apparently we’re not allowed on them until at least April for fear we trash them as well. This is particularly apparently aimed at me due to the size of both my feet and my ass which frankly is sizeist – a boy cannot help needing to actually stand on the ground and you know what they say about boys with big feet ladies… Yep, expensive hand-made shoes…
So, the nights and mornings are getting lighter, every living creature apart from me is furiously bonking (let’s be honest, the last thing I pulled was a muscle in 2010) and there is green stuff sprouting up like hairs on mother’s chin. Perhaps, just maybe, if we all creep about quietly and no one makes any sudden movements, we can keep Mother Nature calm and she will let Spring, you know, like spring?
The only problem with this improvement in the weather is that the two women in my life have decided that this means I need to start doing more work. Well, I think they said something more akin to “quit thinking I’ve retired” punctuated with some choice Anglo Saxon adjectives but net net they meant the same thing. Apparently the “get the oldie active” campaign is about to kick off, but in yet another stunning display of unfairness this only applies to the old, broken four-legged one of us and not the decrepit diva of the two-legged variety. Mind you, getting her fit would be a trick worthy of David Copperfield – I think the last time mother was seen moving at anything above a limp was when her and Aunty Mary had to break into a trot to make last orders in Shagaloof in 1998…
Anyways, apparently my campaign starts this weekend with Crazy Self-Employed Lady taking me hacking this weekend. She was going to take me this week but instead chose to stab herself in the arm with a blade while opening a hay bale. I know, I am surrounded by women who frankly need minders – between her and mother combined, their IQ might just rival that of a garden gnome. It’s a cross I bear peoples, a cross I bear…
Anyways, I am off to see if I can pounce on any more blades of the green stuff surfacing like submarines from the sea of mud, perhaps have a roll just to see if I can make mother cry with the mud pack sticking to my ear floof and brace myself for whatever madness the weekend brings.
Laters,
Hovis
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