Dear Diary,
Praise be to the man upstairs for having serious wind issues this weekend. Normally I would be most put out about my tail wafting about like an over excited octopus at a rave concert, but as it saved me from mother’s hair dressing skills I can honestly say this weekend I didn’t mind at all.
Apparently trying to pull my mane when it’s blowing about like sea weed doing a Mexican wave was too risky even by mother’s standards. So as it currently stands I still have a mane which is long and flowing (in a manly manner).
Well half a mane anyway. I don’t hold out much hope to having such flowing tresses by this weekend unless I can either find a rabbit hole big enough to put my head down, or persuade one of you to send me a hairpiece in the post?
With a long flowing mane I look majestic and manly. With it pulled so short I couldn’t offer a hiding place to a runaway ant, I look about two years old with ears like a mule. As I’m already fending off a challenge for Dolly’s affections I don’t need to look like I have to ask my mother if I can come out to play.
Sadly though the wind didn’t put mum off her “get fit” campaign. On Thursday night I was lunged within an inch of my life, due perhaps in part to my rather enthusiastic trot to gallop transition.
When she digs her heels in and braces backwards against the centrifugal force I am always tempted to slam the brakes on and see how good her balance really is. Tempted but never actually stupid enough to try to find out.
Over the weekend I was subjected to several sessions of boring poncing in which mother spent a lot of time looking at her legs and bottom in the school mirrors and telling me off for not prancing about like a fairy on egg shells.
On the Saturday we shared the school with the little orange dude who seems to have a bit of a “bromance” thing going on with me. His mum is very nice but obviously has a very dim view of a) mother’s control (understandably) and b) my stopping distance, as every time we got anywhere near her she squeaked like a mouse at a cat convention.
Admittedly after orange dude showed off doing a ministry of funny walks routine I did demonstrate one of my awesome walk to canter transitions which nearly ended up with me wearing small orange dude as a balaclava.
It’s not my fault I have a very long stride. Unlike his mother orange dude didn’t seem to mind and actually tried to kiss me when I went back into the barn. I’m all for blatant admiration but seriously a high five is fine — unless you’re an attractive mare, when face snogging is perfectly acceptable.
I have enough street cred issues being seen out on a regular basis accompanied by an equine ballerina in a constant audition for “Lord of the Dance” without adding a very well-bred orange whisker nibbler to the posse. I need to get back out hacking with my main man Billy – he may look like a cow but at least he’s a manly cow. I’m sure there is a bullock joke in there somewhere but he’s even bigger than me so I daren’t.
So instead I leave you with this gem for a May bank holiday weekend:
Why did the polo pony go to the vets?
Because he felt he was a little horse
Bada bish! Thank you and good night.
Hovis
