Dear diary,
Oh my gosh, did I speak too soon about Mother Nature being over her little snit with the thermostat, as once again she’s decided to go all Colonel Sanders on us and Kentucky Fry Cobs. Honestly, the last time I saw sweat like this was when mother broke into a light jog after someone told her they were selling Lambrini on a time limited BOGOF deal at the local Chavda. I mean, I’m all for a manly glow after exercise – it makes my muscles all the more prominent – but frankly this is less glow and more flow. And I mean it’s flowing into and around parts that aren’t supposed to be white water rafting – my Hovis hose is not a banana boat ride, if you know what I’m saying. Stick a few slalom flags into my cheeks and you could use my bottom crack for Olympic canoeing try outs. In fact, I’m pretty sure if I had mites (and I don’t) that I would be accused of mass murder as they all drowned in the tsunami of sweat cascading down my legs. It‘s less feathers down there and more water foul…
Before things got to the current levels of heat, the weekend was actually reasonable. So much so that mother had another one of her brain farts and yet again decided that it was a good idea for the brainless barbie boy and I to grace the school together, at the same time.
Mini-mother had decided that since the pint-sized pain in the posterior clearly has the memory of Dory with senility that she had better how him some mounted games equipment before they set off for camp. I’m assuming this was in case he mistook bending poles for some sort of dance accessory and found his inner JLo.
Anyways, mother decided we should show blonde and blonder how it’s done and demonstrate that despite my size, I can switch direction faster than a Prime Ministerial candidate and weave my way like a snake into the place we wanted to be (again, I spot a resemblance to the lesser spotted politician…). Needless to say, mini-mother looked impressed with my bending but not so much with mother’s attempt to move flags from one place to another – one has to bear in mind that there’s only so close I can park to these things and frankly the Tower of Pisa is leaning faster than mother’s decrepit body can manage out of the side door, unless I supply ejector seat assistance.
We did do some trotting, during which I fantasised about a steering malfunction which would tragically lead to a steamrollered short stuff, which in turn would mean I got to go to that most discriminatory of establishments; The Pony Club camp. Sadly to misquote Dolly, mother may be blonde but she ain’t dumb and thus I was restrained with the effectiveness of an A-list stalker. Which to be honest, punishes mini-mother as much as it punishes me; I think all little girls should have one camp which they, and all around them, never ever forget. I would be very good at mounted games and the like and thus the fact I am not a pony shouldn’t matter; my increased height just means I am closer to the heavens and thus my halo shines ever brighter.
Honest.
Anyway, I’m off to write yet another snotty note to the DC of the PC and then await their grovelling apology.
I fear I may be gone some time.
Laters,
Hovis
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