Dear diary,
So, this New Year continues a foot with the mothership still mainly out of action, although she did limp around a hack at the weekend with Barbie Boy and mini-mother, with the speed and enthusiasm of week two New Year dieters tucking into their kale smoothies. I wasn’t allowed on said hack as apparently, I am “untrustworthy” out hacking and a) am thus not deemed a good platform from which the mothership could keep her only offspring from being flattened by the intercity express to Londonsville and b) am seen highly likely to ditch the broken mothership faster than Boris’ party planner’s number was deleted from his mobile, so no one seemed overly keen on my participation.
This is fine with me as it means I have more time to hang out with the ladies and eat – two things very dear to me. I did however have a bit of fun with the mothership and upon noticing she’d left her keys to my tack room in the door, removed the keyring from the keys and hid it in the shavings of my nicely deep banks in my nice fluffy bed. Watching the horror on her face for the five full minutes it took her to realise I hadn’t actually eaten it was absolutely hilarious and well worth the verbal onslaught that inevitably occurred when she actually thought to check the surrounding area before hitting the Herman The German Signal. He’s a lot less yelp for help (know your paw patrol, peoples) and more assistance for subsistence, but the principle is still the same.
Having discovered I didn’t in fact eat her keyring and thus was not in need of colic surgery nor up-to-the-elbow violations of any orifice, the thought of doing something with me was briefly discussed. The fact, however, was the arenas were out of use, I’m not a hamster and thus will not under any circumstances willingly walk around that contraption which they put Barbie onto, nor would anyone volunteer (or be voluntold) to hack me, so mother was more stymied than Sir Sweat-me-not’s lawyers.
Tragically, over the past few days the new arena has been cleared for use so I sadly see an end coming to my highly enjoyable work holiday, and both Aunty Em and eventually the mothership (when she can get her leg over without rupturing something) insisting on some actual work. I may be able to spin it out a little bit longer due to the fact that the machines are still moving about doing the pathways and walkways and thus, those without lemming-like survival instincts may think twice, but it’s clearly heading for a conclusion which will see me back under saddle sooner rather than later.
It does sound like mother’s human equivalent of pointy fingers lady has questioned the intelligence of mother riding – and that’s without even seeing how cr*p she is – but as we all know, mother’s IQ is about equivalent to a single celled organism while her stubbornness points to Welsh blood being in there somewhere (my bet is hill pony — unless she’s less A, B or C and more just sectionED). Needless to say, I think the physio’s suggestion was taken “under advisement” and ignored more rigorously than social distancing at Downing Street work functions.
So, I’m off to enjoy what could be my final days of freedom from oppression, dictatorship and stressage, while mentally choreographing my “I’m so glad you’re riding me again” interpretative dance routine.
Laters,
Hovis
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