Dear diary,

It appears that mother nature is still in a snit with herself and the rest of us – in fact, I’d go so far as to say she’s in a hell of a mood with “hell” being the operative word here. I’m pretty sure Cerberus himself would go on strike if forced to work in the sweltering heat we are being subjected to; honestly, the insides of my thighs are sweatier than the surface of a Downing Street photocopier after an all-night “working session”…

The only positive is that everyone else is looking just as jaded, so at least I don’t stick out like airbags on a snake. I’m actually fairly grateful for the fact I haven’t had my fly mask off (other than under the cover of darkness) in about three weeks because I’m pretty sure a peeling nose, a flaccid forelock and a $12bn eye that mother protects with the fervency of her last Rolo, are not high up on the “things you find attractive in a gelding” list.

I did briefly have some respite the other day, as in preparation for my photo shoot, I was taken into the wash room and scrubbed to within an inch of my life and possibly mother’s too. The mothership ended up far far wetter than the inside of an otter’s pocket, mainly due to simple physics: she is short, I am not, so thus washing my mane means water (like poop) rolls downhill. Or in this case, pours – down her arm and all over her midsection and upper thighs… I now don’t have to wait for incontinence to actually hit–– I already know what she will look like…

Still, I have to admit the bath was enjoyably cool and refreshing even if I had to listen to mother moan about being wet and then yield scissors around my personage like an under-qualified and possibly drunk topiarist. It was commented how still I stand for her and what a good boy I am. Let’s be clear – that’s not obedience, that’s fear. I’ve already been gelded I don’t need to be de-sausaged to add to the trauma, thanks.

As it transpires, the photographer couldn’t come as her son had caught goose pox or something so I was at least saved from another bath on Wednesday morning, but I didn’t get the chance to work it like the pro that I am. Ask anyone who has ever come to see me – I work a camera and an audience like a Las Vegas call girl; only I’m cheaper and less like to give you dirty germs… From Windsor to Lincoln, from H&C TV to BHS podcasts, I have schmoozed like Tom Cruise. Only I’m taller, hairier and the only “-ology” I subscribe to is biology… practical, not theory…

I therefore had a relatively quiet week down the yard until the yard manager Ms Snitchy Pants sent mother a video of me having a bit of a hurtle about in my field. Mother wasn’t impressed by all accounts, which did make me thankful she’d only seen a cropped highlight and not in fact the full feature film. In my defence there was a very large plane flying about very slowly, throwing people out of the back of it with what looked like a pair of my mother’s pants strapped to them. I don’t know what these poor people had done but I did surmise that they were pagan offerings to the witch in charge of the thermostat in order to appease her. Barbie Boy told me people do it for fun but then he is blonde and in possession of the sort of IQ that amoebas aspire to… when they’re young and lacking ambition.

He went to a pole clinic the other night which he looked thrilled about. In fairness I was never keen on pole work either having had rather too many times where mother had taken tips from people online on how to “spice up” schooling (let’s be honest, with the size whip and spurs mother rides with then I don’t think “spicy” is our problem) and got her striding wrong. You have to bear in mind she couldn’t count to 10 if you loaned her fingers, so correctly strided pole distances are about as likely as her entering Love Island as the jumping alternative to the stressage one. Needless to say I didn’t get invited but on this occasion I can’t say I minded.

Anyways I’m off to work on my poses, hide my peeling noses and keep bouncing about on my toesies.



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