Dear diary,
This week saw another momentous milestone be met — no, not one million human fillies and colts signing up in one day for their little prick, but one far more important. I haz big boy shoes back on!
Back last year, at the worst point of my bid to join the Olympic three-legged race team, Cool New Shoes Man and Herman the German Needle Man pretty much told mum that I couldn’t be saved. But they forgot who they were dealing with…
By Christmas, the mood had changed to a view that I could maybe be a field ornament for the rest of my days, which was a lot more positive than an ambition of being the filling in a value lasagne. But they forgot who they were dealing with…
By early spring, the view was becoming that maybe I could do a bit of light walking work and I was fitted with my hand-made aluminium Jimmy Choo Choo Shoos, which thrilled both Cool New Shoes Man’s bride to-be and his bank manager, while causing mother to rock in a corner weeping with what one has to assume was pure joy. I had several shoeing cycles involving swapping one set of hand-made aluminium Jimmy Choo Choo Shoos for another set of hand-made aluminium Jimmy Choo Choo Shoos, until this Friday, when CNSM announced that since his wedding has now all been pretty much paid for, and my foot is looking very healthy, I can go back to proper big boy shoes. Handmade, proper big boys’ shoes admittedly — I still haz standards, peoples — but back to proper heavyweight horse shoes. I now clippetty clop rather than sounding like mini-mother in a stolen pair of the mothership’s high heels or a mouse in clogs.
Now, we have to wait to the end of this shoeing cycle and for Herman to come and take yet more photos of the most popular body part on either side of the Atlantic (sorry again, Kim) to find out if I will be allowed to trot. Now to be clear, this is “official” trotting, with the mother load on board rather than illegal, thunder ground trotting, which I have been doing a LOT of in my field, much to the enjoyment of the new people who have moved into the house next to my summer paddocks. Apparently the first time I kicked in the turbo, they thought they had bought a house under the Heathrow flight path. Either that or they’d moved onto a fracking site, such is the power of my propulsion. Ladies — I really do make the earth move for you, what mosay?!
IF Herman says I’m allowed to trot again, then this will be the biggest comeback since Take That. CNSM said on Friday that I was nearly back to normal — to be honest I’ve never been so insulted in my life.
The only more insulting factor of the visit was finding out that Cool New Shoes Man has invited mother and mini-mother to his wedding but not me. The man wins NAF Horse & Hound Farrier of the year due to the fact he is MY farrier, and I have given him a lot of opportunity to look semi-competent over the years, MY fans flatter his ego by fawning over him like a slimming group over Willie Wonka, and it’s MY genius philanthropy that has afforded 99% of the money to pay for this social event of the decade and THEN I’m not invited? Mum says it’s because my ginger hue clashes with the pink theming, but then she drips sarcasm like a leaking tap on a good day so I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her — which given the size of her, isn’t far…
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I’m off to figure out who I can complain to about this blatant discrimination — I’m thinking the vicar as surely it’s got to count for something that Jesus had a donkey? Parallels peoples, parallels…
Laters,
Hovis
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