Dear diary,
It’s fair to say this has been a dot com week. As in www. Only in this case, it’s less world wide web and more wind, walking and sorry to say this but… willies…
I am more traumatised than a long-haired guinea pig in a wig shop.
The weekend brought the wind. And I don’t mean the type Barbie bottom gets when he’s eaten too much swede from the ooops shelf at Asda. I mean the blow the roof off the barn, turn my mane into an octopus at a rave, turn my feathers into pom-poms and blow my tail up by bottom like the wind up the M1 type of wind. The type that gets me more on edge than a gecko on the window of a New York Skyscraper and possibly channelling my inner Michael Flatley a little more enthusiastically than my mother approves of. But then gaining my mothers approval is harder than getting a politician to admit a cheese board isn’t office stationary…
Anyway, the wind meant riding or indeed anything that didn’t involve hanging on to the nearest immovable object for grim death was out of the question, but I may have caused a few raised eyebrows with yet more of my interpretive dance moves as I looked to come in quicker than the other three horses. Which would have been fine if I hadn’t have been at the back of the “queue” and thus, leaving horses and humans strewn in my wake like hurricane Hovis. Once more, the air was blue with mother swearing as she struggled to contain me in just a headcollar and the power of her fury while being dragged along like a skywriter’s sign behind a Red Arrow. Fair to say the words “for sale” appeared quite a bit alongside some more basic (but fluent) anglo-saxon…
The walking came later this week when Aunty Em, clearly realising she was going to have channel her inner Channing Tatum and step up, took me for a saunter around the new school. Not saying I spooked, but she has renamed me Casper – disclaimer: no feet were harmed in the process. Walking alongside Aunty Em when I can either throw her into the pathway of issues or leap into her arms like Scooby Doo is one thing, but being ridden in it is something else. But still if it makes the women in my life happy, then fair enough.
What did not make me happy was the happenings of Tuesday when frankly, and I can’t convey this enough, I was violated. I horribly and irrevocably scarred for life by the most hideous of happenings and what’s worse is mother PAID them.
Now firstly one has to ask at one point one makes a decision to take that fork in the career path? Career day at school? What do you want to be children? “Miss, I want to be a firefighter”, “I want to be an astronaut”, “I want to be a WAG”, “oh I want to be a willie washer”. I mean, REALLY?!! Do they offer courses in it? I only ask because for the love of all that’s holy, I daren’t google it. The first hint I had that my day was going to go south faster than a penguin on the pull was when I was fetched in by a rather amused-looking mother (always a bad sign when mother is smiling – it’s like looking at a great white at a seal farm) and plonked in my stable in the middle of the afternoon. Not 10 minutes later, after she had fetched a similarly bemused Barbie Boy in, a man turned up to a flurry of questions as to whether he was a willy washer.
Now had I not assumed that the poor man’s mother didn’t like him very much I might have turned tail and ran faster than Boris Johnson’s party planner, but the reality is that I am an innocent boy and jut assumed that this nice man called William Washer (Sunday name) was here to perform some sort of task. Yeah, about that. His name’s not Willy. He holds horse legs up to restrain us from kicking the daylights out of the lady who uses lubricant the way my mother uses a laptop – at high speed and for money. To be fair, you can tell she was a professional – she had a hold of the Hovis hose faster than I could realise her intent, and despite me retracting it back into its cave faster than a statement from the Met Office Police Commissioner, she hung on like a Kardasian to a pre-nup.
With the man holding on to my leg and mother holding my head I was powerless to prevent the pecker pulling so I chewed my lips and thought of England. I did not as my mother has suggested enjoy it in any way as that would be wrong on more levels than a lift in a brothel. I am just able to admit when I have been defeated and thus grit my teeth and think of Ireland.
This was not true of Barbie Boy who clearly objected to the cleaning of his chipolata so violently that it took two of them to hold him and a twitch to be deployed. The last time so much tail swishing and high kicking was seen was a Las Vegas showgirl line up – although I’m not sure there was as many marigolds…
Needless to say I have refused to speak to my mother ever since and am currently in talks to find someone to represent me in my claim for mental distress.
Laters,
Hovis
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