‘I keeel you.’
I don’t know why my daughter insists on talking to and threatening me in a Mexican accent – she was born and brought up in London.
Apparently I’m to be keeeeeled because I cannot come up with a reasonable solution to the unfathomable question of why my daughter’s antichrist pony is unhappy. Admittedly it has Cushings disease and Laminitis, either of which would bring me down a bit if I suffered from same. Although, as I don’t have hooves, the second seems a little less likely. And his attitude about being half an inch too short to be an actual horse has always made him a pain, although I’m not too sure he knows about that and is just an annoying git for the sake of it.
‘So why can’t you stay with him all night, just to cheer him up. There’s straw all over the floor, it’s warm and dry and it’s a big stable. You’re just being mean.’
If not wanting to spend the night with an animal who hates me – even after giving him daily treats is being mean, then so be it. And I certainly have no intention of spending the night cooped up in a box with a horse which sleeps on its back with its legs wide apart and whose flatulence can strip paint.