Dear diary,
The last thing that seemed to last as long as the human strangles epidemic was mini-mother’s class recorder recital when they were five-years-old: apparently, the lasting damage to mental and physical health of those in the audience was at a similar level of severity also…
Clearly heroic strides are being made in terms of sticking needles into humans, but an end to this now just can’t come soon enough. I cannot honestly remember what it feels like to be left in peace without some mask-wearing lunatic hauling me out of bed at 0-dark-30 and making me work — which is honestly completely unreasonable when I have spent the previous 23 hours in a field.
In the elements.
Without so much as a sleeping bag or a tent.
Only to have the mothership moan at me that I look like some sort of feral pit pony with filthy feathers — well like, hello? You’re making me sleep on the grass; what am I supposed to do? Levitate? Suspend myself from the nearest tree by my rug surcingles and knitted together tail hair? As for calling me feral — talk about the pot calling the kettle black. The last time I saw more hair was in the bins outside a 24/7 dog grooming parlour; Captain Caveman has been on the phone with accusations of stealing his look. Honestly, when the wind is blowing, I have to look at her feet to figure out which way she’s facing. She walked me around the other day when it was very windy and it was like being exercised by Medusa post an unfortunate electric shock incident. Why she couldn’t have ridden me I know not, the size of her backside would have been plenty enough ballast, I can assure you — hotels in the Caribbean should use her in a hurricane…
On a slightly more positive, and less hirsute, note I am due to see Cool New Shoes Man again next week for another set of hand-made aluminium Jimmy Choo Choo Shoos.
Now, the good news is not that I’m seeing him, as frankly I do always spend my time awaiting the stealthy snog (although he did blot his copybook by snogging Barbie boy last time he was here), nor indeed the pleasure I get in watching mother pale further yet at the state of her ever diminishing bank balance, but instead it’s the last shoeing cycle before Herman the German Needle Man comes back to take more images of the most photographed body part in the world (with apologies given to the Kardashian ass). If all is ok I might, just might, get clearance to take Hoverine Airlines for a flyby and actually get out of walk which will make me very, very happy and probably make mother cry. Again…
Continued below…
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He won’t come for a few weeks but this last set of shoes before he does brings that timing closer by the day, so hooves crossed that CNSM doesn’t find anything dodgy when he takes this set off and then we’re on real countdown. Until that point I am still firmly grounded both by the vet and the weight of mother’s backside — one of whom weighs more heavily on both my mind and my back more than the other…
Laters,
Hovis
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