It’s fair to say I have always known that I was a heavyweight in the horse world, but this week we had it confirmed. Unfortunately, this wasn’t my arrival into the Top 100 list of the world’s most influential people (as in my view it should have been), but instead due to a lady sticking me on a weighbridge and sending mother a number almost as large as the value of my average vet’s bill. The number apparently had mother spit her drink half-way across the room but somehow, I fear this may be an over exaggeration as separating her from her sneaky shandy is about as likely as her sticking to her latest diet…
I am still, to be clear, a fine specimen of equine excellence, but it would appear I am heavy boned. At least I’ve not been put on meds because I am a moody blonde who suffers from PMT the way Barbie Boy has. His insulin levels are apparently back up again so he’s back on daily drugs until such time as Herman the Germans glamorous side kick says his bloods are back to normal – I seeing a lot of little pricks in his future…
The lady who weighed me and snitched to mother about the size of my ass was clearly so excited to be near equine royalty that she took some of my poo as a souvenir – which was a bit weird, but at least she didn’t steal some of my mane, I’ve rubbed enough of it off as it is… I heard mother say something about worm counts, but I’m not sure what that had to do with Barbie or me. Frankly I have much better things to do with my time than digging about in my field looking for pacifist snakes. I thought mother did too, but frankly nothing she does surprises me in the slightest – as I have long since suggested, she definitely entered the gene pool when the lifeguard was distracted.
The yard continues to see new people turn up – we have about four new horses now, all guys sadly, but they do seem quite nice. Understandably they all get very flustered when they realise who the cool dude in the field next to them is, but they do eventually get that they can stand fairly close and just bask in my aura. I do still have my ginger ninja girl in the field next to me and the blonde bombshell two fields down to
perv at – sorry, converse with, too, so life is pretty reasonable.
It would be even more reasonable if mini-mother would get with the programme about taking me showjumping instead of the bijou beast. Let’s face it she’s so light I wouldn’t notice the weight of her and the height she jumps I could step over if needed but at least I would be out partying again. Instead, I have to sit at home like Cinderella whilst the pint-sized palomino gets to go and have all the fun. Life seriously sucks harder than mother on a magnum at times.
Anyway, I’m off now to hang out with the new guys and figure out my campaign slogan to get mini mother as my jockey: I’m thinking “Ditch Mr Flighty – come and ride the mighty”? Any other ideas?
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