Hovis’ Friday diary: “Forget the Ark – I need a chugging submarine”

Dear Diary,

So if 2022 was the year Mother Nature forgot to take her HRT and thus made us all sweat the size of Shetland, then 2023 seems to be the year she forgot about her Thena, because lord wet over it. How really very wet. Honestly, the mere amount of water on my eyelashes would save Cape Town from drought for a month, and let’s not even talk about the waterfall running down my buttocks. Forget the Ark – I want a puffy submarine.

We had some downy days last week due to a lack of lifeguards to ensure we didn’t drown in the ditch, the mothership showed up over the weekend like a ghost in wet camouflage, wafting an air of British determination to carry on no matter what. . The Barbie boy (or is it supposed to be a buoy now?) was first pulled out of his lake, had his water wings removed, and had a lunge rope tied on before being let loose as a frog (See Is there an amphibian reference? Like I don’t have a Pulitzer Prize, above mine understanding) ..) to school.

There, he was made to splash in circles for 20 minutes, dousing himself, the surroundings, and the rebellious mothership with water and that sand-based mud that feels wet, and then dries with something like a cement stick that Gorilla glue can use. only dream. He looked as excited as the New Year’s dieter in the salad section of Chavda on January 6th.

After a suitable period of time/coat of school surface liberally applied to his ginger-nut coating, he was brought in, washed in a hot box (pony princess does not like cold water) and placed in his stable, after which the usual ritual was undertaken as he rode looking angrily at her mother. I have to give him credit, I sometimes flinch under my mom’s patented dying stare (to be honest, that would make Darth Vador think twice), but he doesn’t give a damn.

In any case, while she was mentally contemplating the demise of the red-haired ninja, I was called, NAKED, I hasten to add, to land and prepare for launch, while the weather deteriorated from a mere rain of cats and dogs to a monsoon-style sidestream. Forget the otter’s pockets – I was wetter in minutes than the shoulder of Herman, the German needle master, last year when he told her he’d reached the limits of his cereal-box veterinary degree, and I was short-lived. for this earth. The mother looked like the girl in the old Timothy shampoo commercial – if she was filmed under Niagara Falls, and she had beautiful long hair, not like a poodle that was electrocuted, and she was five dress sizes slimmer and two centuries younger…

By the time I completed four laps, I was fighting off offers from the Olympic synchronized swimming team, turning the last few white spots on my body into a very tricky shade of brown, and risking flooding Norfolk with waves. did at school. By the fifth round, when it became clear that my mom had Kardashian stamina without a marriage contract, I decided to take matters into my own hands and stop. Mother, having the intelligence of an amoeba after a full frontal lobotomy, clearly thought I was merely objecting to the direction I was going, and therefore politely suggested, through body movement and a very large whip, that I might like to launch another. way. Considering the rain was lashing horizontally and I was running in a CIRCLE, I’m not sure why this should do anything? But my mother’s IQ is only matched by a garden gnome, which probably explains it. So I declined the kind offer to change direction.

Thus, a stalemate was created.

I stood and looked at her.

She stood and looked at me.

The rain lashed us both as Mother Nature unleashed her unfiltered eye on the relative folly of equestrianism as a winter sport.

Rain poured down my nose, eyelashes and ears.

The mother’s resemblance to one of those mops from the 1970s school cafeteria became more and more obvious.

She brandished her whip threateningly.

I got up on my hind legs and gestured towards the shed (helpfully, in case she didn’t know where it was).

She suggested loudly and forcefully that my parents were unmarried and that there might be some form of waterfowl in my genetics.

The confrontation resumed: most likely, it was a reconstruction of the Cuban missile crisis – the two superpowers are in a complete impasse.

In the end, after it became clear that we would stand there all night if necessary (when I say “it became clear”, I mean after my mother repeated it with many more adjectives several times), I agreed, in the name of peace and de-escalation, to walk a few more laps – with my eyes closed, since by this time I need wipers suitable for the forelock. So, with her honor (and ridiculous belief that she’s a rider anyway) still intact, Mom and I hurriedly retreated to the bathroom, where she spent another 10 minutes, getting even wetter as she flushed all the school surface from mine. feathers. If you ever want to know how illogical it looks, I represent my mother…

One way or another, the rain continues and is not going to give up. The fields are pools, the mud is 20 billion feet deep, and my mother is a fool. Please let 2023 be the year she sells me out, preferably to someone in warmer climes – please send all offers to:

I’m not a seahorse, get me out of here
PO Box 666,
wetlands,
IH8 H2O.

Later,

How is

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Credit: Future

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