Dear Diary
It’s fair to say as we head into the festive period, it’s been a week of ups and downs – mostly in terms of mother’s blood pressure and the likelihood of her killing me before New Year.
At the weekend Storm Blowy-Flowy hit and the batons were firmly pulled down – well they were for us equines. Mother, mini-mother and the long suffering and now possibly not husband-to-be, were out fencing in it. I have to say watching mother try to unravel electric fence tape in a force 10 gale like some sort of two-legged, crippled, wild-haired human Andrex puppy was one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long time.
Luckily for the more innocent members of the barn, the wind made it impossible to hear anything but faint snatches of the tirade of abuse which was pouring forth, but I imagine it was “colourful”. By the time they had finished I think the wedding was off, mini-mother had sworn to look for an inside hobby and mother was needing a vet to euthanise her on humane grounds.
Funnily enough I don’t think “fencing in a gale” was on the allowed list of activities three weeks post multi-level spinal fusion, but if any of you think she was ever going to listen to anything akin to reason, you clearly haven’t met my mother…
The following day the wind had dropped slightly but the rain was coming in sideways so we were confined to another day in barracks. Which is where mother’s brilliant idea #2476385 came in.
Following a brief lesson on the art of lunging, my step-dad-to-be (SD2B) and mini-mother were made to wear hats and gloves whilst I had a very thin rain sheet put on, my lunging bridle and was led out to the school by mini-mother. Now in my defence it was getting dark, it was very windy, I’m half blind and hadn’t been out for two days so I might have been, you know… a bit boingy.
Now apparently I have a “tell”, which occurs split seconds before I lose my poo in which I shake my head like Stevie Wonder with a wasp in his ear – who knew?! Upon seeing this, my mother (three weeks post-major back surgery and under strict instruction not to lift anything heavier than a kettle, not to twist nor bend) grabbed the lunge line and yelled at the two able-bodied people, who had full protective gear on, to get out of the way.
Despite everything, I do so love my mum and so I had to battle my urge to absolutely go full scale cowabunga and corner like Evel Knievel on rails so that I didn’t hurt her. Her crooning at me not to break her in half did sort of make the point as SD2B and mini-mother looked on in horror, so I absolutely managed to get myself under control and have a sensible 10 minutes on the lunge. For the record, sensible is so over-rated.
It did, however, buy me much cuddles and treats as I gently licked and cuddled my broken mess of a parent when we got back to the barn. It’s fair to say at that moment she loved me more than anyone else on earth.
It’s also fair to say that feeling didn’t last long…
Now I’m going to ask you a question.
So, on Christmas Day, when you’ve all over-indulged on Christmas dinner and are approaching a turkey tryptophan coma, I imagine you all like to sink down onto the sofa or the floor and just have a minute to get over the small food baby you have created. I’m assuming at no point does someone get in a panic, call an enthusiastic German Man who then – without so much as a warning – shoves his lightly lubricated arm all the way up to his armpit up your back passage?
No?
So pray tell why after I might have slightly over indulged on grass in the winter field (a sectioned off bit mind – see earlier point about fencing in a gale – so hardly 10 acres worth), I indulge in a little (ok somewhat unheard of) lie down to work off the grass gas, did a fellow livery phone mother who flew into one of her much patented panics and call Herman? Herman, who shot out to her promising the “full service”, which seemingly means violating me in every way possible whilst cracking jokes at my expense. Up to his shoulder up my arse, he asks mother to check my ear; slightly bewildered but stressed enough to be gullible, she does only for him to say to her if she can see his fingers he’d gone too far. SD2B was on the floor laughing, which made me evilly wish for him to have Herman do his prostrate exam next time it needs doing…
Needless to say, mother’s hysteria will have resulted in another enormous vets bill and made me very hangry as I was denied food for three hours once the Herman-shaped hemorrhoid had been removed from the crack of Hovis. Herman did suggest he could give a good sedative – which to be clear was for mother, not me – and disappeared chuckling to himself. I meantime am plotting revenge – I’m sorry but that level of penetration requires dinner and some drinks beforehand at the very least…
So, I’m off to wedge myself against a wall to stop anymore unwelcome infiltration and to enjoy the three blades of grass I’m clearly now going to be allowed a day. Ho, ho, blinking Ho.
Laters,
Hovis
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