Dear diary,
So, thanks to motor mouth mother, the cat is out of the bag in terms of my next major party outing: just so that I’ve actually told you and not let the fog-horn female do all the shouting about it. So, I’m proud to confirm that I’m once again off to the cult show Your Horse is Alive in November. I’m always thrilled to go down to this great event and hang out with as many of you as possible and possibly hook up with of my celebrity friends — I always feel it’s such a privilege and a honour to rub shoulders with the equestrian elite and I’ve given so many the chance to do that; Mary King, Geoff Billington, Carl Hester, Sir Lee Pearson, Jay Halim, the list is endless. On their behalf, I thank Your Horse is Alive for once again making dreams come true…
More details on what I may or may not be doing will follow over the next few months, but ideas as to what you’d like to see me do are always welcome. Within reason clearly people, within reason…
So, to that end the “get super fit” campaign is now underway. After Cool New Shoes Man visited last week, I can confirm that the hole of Hovis is now so small that it no longer needs more filler than Kim Kardasian’s lips, and indeed is back to being “au naturel” with just the smallest of indents at the front. I still have to wear the plate on the bottom of my shoe, but CNSM assured me it will be off at the next shoeing, a statement which enamoured me to him greatly – nearly as much as when he pointed out that the boy blunder is a big bloater. Oh, how I laughed. He now is wearing a muzzle such that he looks like the love child of an Afghan Hound and Hannibal Lector, which tickled me even more than mother trimming my moustache, and is stripped back to less grass than me which to be fair I didn’t actually think was possible. He is not amused.
He was even less amused when mother and mini-mother had bathed him the other day and scrubbed him within an inch of his life as (and here I quote) he looked like “a filthy feral feathered furball”. Honestly sitting on the other side of the scrubbing brush is one of life’s great treats, especially when it’s usually me having my feathers whitened to the extent if I laid on my back with my legs in the air then I could be a stand in for Tom Cruise’s teeth.
He arrived back at the field some 60 minutes later, still soggy and with a tangible air of defeat, so being a wonderful, helpful type, I suggested that this was because he is a piebald with more white than black and thus, what would make she-who-has-zero-sense-of-humour happy was for him to show her what he would look like as a bay. Proving he is both lacking in height and brains, he took my suggestion seriously and proceeded to roll in the dirt until he was almost black and then stood proudly showcasing his handiwork when mother came up to poo pick. His confusion in the tirade of abuse that poured forth almost made me feel sorry for him, but then I remembered how much he’s been using his “cute” card of late and merely laughed myself horse instead. And no that isn’t a typo. What can I say? I have funny bones…
To be fair, I wasn’t laughing on Wednesday this week when the realisation that my holiday was over came crashing down. Mum had told me that I’m going to have stem cell treatment on my foot when she gets back from Kenya, so foolishly I had thought this meant I could enjoy an extended vacation until then — especially as mother is broken and no adverts had been seen for crash test dummies. It would appear however that she’s switched tactics with the fluidity of politicians changing sides in Brexit, and in the stealth attack that followed, I had tack put on so fast that I didn’t have time to take evasive action and blow out like the Donald Trump Blimp.
Aunty Em then clearly realised that she hadn’t put her brave pants on and so the most fearsome of creatures was pulled out to deal with me instead: the boss lady. A petite creature with thighs of steel and a “look” which makes even mother appear a rank amateur — seriously, she looks sideways at me and my legs start piaffing of their own accord; I even carry my own head. Anyway, after I dutifully didn’t launch the boss lady into the next county (honest to god I wouldn’t dare), Aunty Em got on board and I proved that I am more than capable of keeping the two of us together. For now. I’ve always told you people — lull them into false sense of security and never misbehave on the first ride back into work. Instead, savour the anticipation and jettison them on ride three or four, when they’re least expecting it — when they’re not expecting it, you can affect a trajectory that makes a fighter plane’s ejection seat look as gentle as a kid’s playground swing.
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So, I’m off to plan my Your Horse is Alive agenda, give more brotherly advice to the petite pea-brained piebald and avoid work as much as possible. I’m just wondering if I wait until mum gets back from the USA to start limping or if I do it before such that Aunty Em has to ring and tell her? Decisions, decisions.
Laters,
Hovis
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