Posted by Tania Kindersley.
There I was, doing my work, pondering some good meaty political thoughts to put up on the blog, generally carrying on in a respectable manner. I thought: I'll just have a little look at the racing. Just for a moment. I ruthlessly ignored it yesterday, because it was a Thursday, and there were things to be done. But today is a Friday; it's practically the weekend. It's Aintree, the last big national hunt meeting of the season. Just a barely discernible peek. Just a tiny little tenner on that nice mare of James Fanshawe's.
The mare lost, and I was lost too. My heart is thumping, my head filled only with horseflesh; I can make no sense of work, or the election, or anything else. I only hope my publishers do not read this, or I shall get the sack. What a rackety creature they have hired. (My mother does read this, but she will not be at all surprised. She was married to my father, after all; she knows how strong that gambling blood runs.)
Thank God it will soon be six months of the flat, which does not stir my blood in the same way, although I could bore you to death about the day I watched Dancing Brave win the Arc de Triomphe in 1986.
Think of me at 3.10, when I shall be hoping that lovely fleet Poquelin wins: