Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Help! I’m on starvation rations and categorically NOT allowed to eat the small ginger one’

Dear Diary,

Hoppy Easter to you all.

I will be honest – I don’t understand the whole Easter thing; big bunnies supposedly hiding chocolate eggs all seems a little suspect to me. Sort of like a horse writing a book (or eight)… oh wait…

I am not mentioning any lack of understanding, or indeed questioning whether mother should indeed be eating her own body weight in chocolate when her body weight is already akin to a small family hatchback, because it’s fair to say I am still not entirely out of the dog house following last week’s over reaction to my little sit in protest. Thus, I have been trying to walk on (Easter) eggshells to avoid any other faux pars which may result in either my imminent demise or being given away for free on Pre-not-loved-anymore.

I can’t say it’s going that well, but I am trying. My mother says her patience but I think the effort should at least be acknowledged…

Talking of trying, I actually thought Mother Nature was trying to do spring the other week – the bunnies were bonking, the sheep sh*gging, that weird orange ball thing was in the sky and I think mother actually smiled. Sadly, it seems she has a similar attention span to Dory and thus has given that up as a boring idea. Instead, we’re all now playing a game of what rug should we wear and do I need an umbrella, a boat, sunscreen or all three every time we are turned out.

This, four seasons in three hours game is getting very tired, very quickly, but the mercurial one seems to be finding herself amusing, which is good because I’m not sure anyone else is thinking so. I’m fairly sure then only thing longer than this winter is my itemised vet’s bills, but it’s starting to become a close run thing…

The unpredictable weather didn’t stop mother from making me work over the weekend, which is about par for the course – I am 22 years old, have lots of bits of me broken but still have to be fit, slim and starved to death. She’s 22 * cough * and a LOT of practice, has lot of bits of her broken and is allowed to be unfit, fat and loved by the shareholders of McDonalds (other fast food outlets are available): the levels of unfairness is nearly as large as her arse.

She informs me it’s because after my weighing the other week, I am fractionally heavier than she would like me to be and as such she’s looking after me. Look after me?! That’s like saying Alive made for a great advert for snow sports and alpine adventures… and even they were allowed to eat each other. I am currently on starvation rations and upped levels of exercise and am categorically not allowed to eat the small ginger one – I know this because I have tried.

Talking of the small ginger one, he has now decided that in addition to EMS, PMT and SMS (small man syndrome), he has hay fever and so is doing a very good impression of a seal with a 50-a-day habit. The mothership has found this somewhat uninspiring and merely ordered him some Columbian marching powder and suggested he needs to get on with it.

When it comes to nurturing mother would make a fantastic serial killer, but on this occasion I do think she’s right. Her comment that she sees through these things because she’s had the pleasure of 18 years of the largest walking equine vet bill in the UK was somewhat harsh, however, and frankly uncalled for.

Anyways, I am off to see if a bunny has brought me any brunch, and brave the wind/rain/fog/snow/sunshine or whatever other combination the mad one upstairs throws at us.

Laters
Hovis

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