So, as I writs my blogue, we starts another day at home in the log downs.
If you sees any neigh-bour behaving too much like a horse, going out whinnying and cantering, well just you denounce them to the police on social meddler.
The Peasant is too busy on writting PSHE COVID-19 lesson planifications to do any writting of donkey blogs, so he is leaving it up to me this week, wot is just as well becuse it is Tuesday and I can writ my blogue on a propper Tuesday, not a TuesWednesday like the last two blogues.
If teechers is saying, what’s this donkey blogue nonsense and “Where are the KS3 lesson plans then?” why don’t you look on the KS3 drop-down menu, and its obvious innit? Witch is why teechers need structures, meetings and managements, as they can’t find anything when they is at home; even when they misplaced their reading glasses, and they ends up finding them in the fridge door next to the marmalade. It’s not surprising when some British school in the Costa Blanca even employs a squirrel to be in charge of human resources.
But I digress. The main thing I want to talk about today is how to cope with a Big Mummy Donk what is getting so fed ups with the log down that she is eating the stable. Yes, amazing but true: not everyone has spent the past weeks watching a decade of interminable episodes of Homeland with Claire Danes doing her best to annoy the Arabs with her CIA pals, while going a bit weird with mental health issues (wot we used to call being a loony) because she forgot to take her Islamophobia medication.
No, if you has been indoors for the past weeks, you will also have noticed people eating the furniture. Sometimes they is also eating the doors or even the walls. So if you wants to know how to advise them, this blogue post is for you. The best way to start being helpful is to mention it in a casual tone of voice, like “Oh, I see you are eating the walls again?” Something like this:
“Oh,” I said to Matilde in a casual tone of voice, “I see you are eating the walls again?”
“Well, there can’t be much nourishment in them.”
“S’alright.” Matilde chewed slowly on the mouthful of timber she had just broken off. “More nourishing than the back door to the chickens’ nesting box. That was just chipboard. Made me sneeze.”
“I hear the Peasant is finally going to be a hermit then?” said Aitana coming in from the rain. “That’s very glamorous isn’t it?”
“Glamorous?” I did my best ‘wot-are-you-on-about-you-silly-horse’ face. “It’s not glamorous it’s only saying prayers while sweeping up donkey poo. Just what the Peasant does every day anyway…”
“I imagine he’ll be jetting off to Davos or Honolulu,” said Aitana, “where he’ll be presenting seminars at international ecumenical hermit symposiums…”
“Symposia,” said Morris loudly, making it sound like a linguistically-determined sneeze in one of the lesser known Uzbek dialects.
“…where the topic will be ‘Why it’s OK to say symposiums these says, because there aren’t no grammer pedants left in a post-Coronavirus world.'”
She glared at Morris, but he was undeterred.
“And more likely to be interfaith than merely ecumenical these days,” he added. “There’s loads of Zoroastrian hermits living in Crewe these days, and other main railway junction towns in the Rhone valley and north Rhine area. Mostly Iranian exiles.”
Honestly! I can’t stand it! I have had six weeks of those two talking like that during the log down. It is driving me mad.
There was a loud crunch as Matilde took a large bite out of the dividing wall. “Matilde,” I said, trying now to appeal to her healthy-eating instincts. “It can’t be good for you eating the stable. And if you’re not careful it will become draughty from the holes in the walls.”
“Rubish,” she said. “Why do you think I stick mostly to eating the internal walls?”
And if you didn’t think there was much in my blogue this week, just Matilde eating the stable, well at least my blogue had more of a plot than the average episode of Homeland, which – when you are fifteen hours into it – you realise is just Claire Danes taking her clothes off every week for reasons which are never entirely clear, while getting cross with the Arabs. And that’s wot counts as the Number 1 “intelligent post-9/11 political TV drama” that people has been binging on in the log down? Still, it stops ’em all eating their kitchen doors, I suppose…
Finally, in the absence of the Peasant today, it falls to me to add the interesting link sent in by Jim of Olym, which is all about the low Sunday tradition that some horses like to keep up in Chile, in a place called Cuasimodo. (A place which must have the best bell-ringers in Latin America?) This is a great blogpost with lovely pictures of dressed horses, so deserves the full support of a celebrity equine blogger like myself.
2 thoughts on “Big Mummy Donk, she go claustrophobial”
squirrel: I think there should be less symposiums.
morris: Surely you mean…
(stops suddenly; gestures of futility)
Estimated Señor Buhorojo,
The Peasant is quite busy in the chicken at the moment setting fire to some perfectly good ingredients to make an inedible meal, but he did say me to convey his appreciation for your ability to grasp the concept of countable nouns when it is beyond the wit of 99% of his fellow countrymen, 100% of whom will not be able to call him their countryman when he has his Spanish passport. Should the bishop of Orihuela require the Peasant to take part in the storming of Gibraltar as the first sign of his allegiance to Felipe VI, I am sure our Peasant will be seen there in the Campo de Gibraltar, like a modern El Cid, strapped to his donkey and riding into the sunset; still wondering why the Powerpoint wouldn’t play the end-title sound file.