Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Unlike mother’s knickers, my guts weren’t in a twist’

Dear Diary

As you read this I will be on route to Your Horse is Alive, which I am thoroughly looking forward to – I hope to see as many of you as possible, help you all spend your money on my new book and grab the odd selfie or two. I’m also hoping that there’s enough of you around to prevent my mother from murdering me, which I have to say after this week is distinctly possible…

So, for some small background: late last week there was major concern at the yard about the large display of sparkly lights and loud bangs that was due from a nearby village last weekend. The mothership being all cocky espoused my past record of dealing with these things stoically such that I had on several instances been used as a large equine comfort blanket for the more highly strung of our species (most notably having to hold Nip and Tuckshops hoof at Your Horse is Alive some years ago). “Hovis will not have an issue with any of this”, said mother confidently, “he is fine with fireworks”.

Now to add colour to this situation mother was also in Scotland for my stepdad-to-be’s (SDTB) birthday. Which for those of you who like a good factoid was 7.5 hours drive away even driving like some sort of mildly panicked bat out of hell.

I’m thinking you might be guessing where this is going…

In my defence I am, as you all know, a wildly philanthropic individual and only the other week Herman the German Needle Man had expressed worry as to how he was going to fund the refilling of the swimming pool and moat at Herman Towers. The thought of his children having to swim in mildly mucky and possibly cold water tugged at my heart strings in such a way I knew I had to help the poor wee mites. And what better way than an emergency call out on a Sunday morning… and another one on Sunday night… you know, just to make sure.

Mother and SDTB were enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning doing things I wish not to think about when the peace was apparently disturbed by Crazy Self Employed Lady (CSEL) phoning to say I didn’t look right. One video later and mother was flapping like a turkey at Winter Wonderland and hurtling down from Scotland faster than World Leaders doing a U-turn on their comments on the Toupee wearing Terror. A vet, Aunty H and CSEL were all dispatched to make sure I didn’t shuffle off my mortal coil before mother was in the same postcode, whilst my bowel motions were watched more closely than the voting pattern in a swing state.

With hindsight as Sunday activities go, I possibly should have thought things through a little more as the weekend vet was even more fond of long gloves and back-channel excavations than Herman is and thus once more I will have PTSD for some time if anyone even mentions the word “marigold”.

Despite the vet assuring mother that unlike her knickers my guts weren’t in a twist, the blubbership was mildly hysterical and so CSEL and Aunty H stayed with me most of the 7.5 hours it took mother to gather the 40+ driving licence-ending speeding fines between the hotel and home. By the time she arrived I still hadn’t pooed – which I think merely proves that unlike the mothership, I’m not full of sh*te – so just to make sure the kids didn’t suffer she called the vet out again. This time the elbow-deep delving did find the motherload, but not content with the damage she’d already done Mother did make my poor stepdad top off what will now be a memorable birthday by coming back at midnight with torches to look for poo. I’m pretty sure that he didn’t know what he was signing up for and is possible now reconsidering his life choices.

It’s fair to say 24 hours later I was absolutely fine and cleared for duty this weekend; which is more than can be said for mother whose nerves are more shot than the Turkish dude’s target, only without his sense of cool…

So, I hope many of you will come to see me this weekend, only to make sure I’m safe from mother’s wrath and to fully appreciate my dedication to Your Horse is Alive (but only just).

I have to say not only am I not full of sh*te, but my book isn’t either and will make an awesome present for all the horsey people in your life with all the money going to the charity Bransby Horses. They look after the unlucky horses who unlike me don’t have a mother who does make sure I have the best care that money can buy, even if it means she has to lapdance for her bank manager on a quarterly basis.

So come and help me, help them… and possibly bring mum some valium.

Laters,
Hovis

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