Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘We need to talk about consequences and the definition of them...’

Dear diary,

Ok, I think we need to talk about consequences and the definition of them because I’m starting to think you lot don’t understand the concept. I am a horse, but I have lived with mother for 19 years and thus, am a master on consequences. For example – the idea of a “fun” spook at a squirrel, which nearly unseats humpty dumpty on top, is for a split second hilarious. The consequences however are a) being on the receiving end of a very, very, very long verbal tirade questioning my parentage b) being made to run around in lots of circles on the end of a rope to “get it out of my system” c) (and most seriously) having my food cut back because obviously this is entirely due to sugar intake and not that I have childish and slightly evil sense of humour. See? Consequences.

So, when some bright spark decided to defrost Mother Nature by feeding her Indian/Mexican/something else suitably spicy, you clearly didn’t think it through. Because good lord, the flatulence is unbelievable. Right now I am writing this while deciding whether to cling to the side of the barn, hold my mane out of my face before I am asphyxiated try and stop my rug wedging up my back passage like Elon Musk up Trump’s…

I understand it’s far worse in other parts of the country, so stay safe peoples, stay safe.

The rest of my week has been reasonably ok. Admittedly we are turned out in a sea of mud where finding a blade of grass is like a search and rescue mission, but at least we have been out. Crazy Self-Employed Lady has badly hurt her arm so we have all been told to be on bestest behaviour, and on the whole I think we have just about managed it, with the exception of the ginger ninja who is in the dog house for diving for grass like a fat fighter after the last custard cream.

He was in the dog house with mini-mother at the weekend when it was decided that she would lunge us both. She took him in the school first where he promptly dived for the ground and rolled about like an enthusiastic Labrador in fox poo. It’s fair to say mother’s parental encouragement of lines such as “who is in control here?” were not deemed helpful if the amount of side eye was anything to go by. As mother struggles to be in control of her own bladder, the irony wasn’t lost on me, but I manfully kept my mouth shut (see note on consequences above…).

The pint-sized pain in the posterior, upon getting up off the floor, then decided he only spoke Welsh and refused to listen to a single voice command. Since I could see my human foal looking desolate at her lack of horse-woman-ship skills, I showed her that I would do as she asked off her voice command alone. Thus, if she asked for canter then I gave her canter. Unfortunately, my efforts to make her feel better were not greeted with enthusiasm, as not only was I apparently in dire danger of breaking a leg in the mud of my field, but also when the entire yard took my impulsion to mean that they too ought to be self-exercising then it was viewed as I had started a stampede. Honestly there is literally no pleasing some people. Thus mini-mother was sent to fetch me in while the larger and thus much more heavily ballasted mothership managed to a) get the small ginger thing up the gears and b) managed to hold on to him when he decided that full on gallop was required.

I was lunged next and having already faced much verbal lambasting, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and just did as I was told.

Throughout all of the this, it’s fair to say the golf addict Step-Dad-to-Be just looked on with utter bemusement as to the life choices mother and her offspring have made with regards to their hobbies.

Anyways, I am off to try and stop my mane blowing about like Trump’s toupé in a hurricane. Stay safe out there and someone for goodness sakes, just get Mother Nature a nice cup of soothing chamomile tea…

Laters,

Hovis

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