Posted by Tania Kindersley.
Oh, how I wanted to give you a long, winding exposition of the glories of Cheltenham at its crest and peak: the majesty of a great champion running up to his finest, breaking a record in the process; the heart-tugging joy of watching an old campaigner hunt round as if he were jumping for fun, romping up the hill at 20-1, ridden by a boy of only 21, having his very first ride at the festival; the sheer pleasure of seeing a fine young horse from a small yard show all his class to stamp his authority on the first race. But it turns out the Undisclosed Location involves social life. I am all guyed up in purple velvet, running out of the house for dinner. (Those regular readers will be pleased to know that the red patent wedges are having their second outing.)
So I have no time. I can only tell you that it was St Patrick's Day; the sun shone from an untroubled sky; Ruby was back in his castle; there were Irish voices incoherent with delight. My dear Poquelin did not run his race, but he came home safe, and sometimes, in jump racing, I think that is the thing that matters the most. And I do not like to brag, but after yesterday's disaster I backed three winners and had a dual forecast, and the poor people at Paddy Power now owe me a stupid amount of money.
Forgive the shocking brevity. The normal service will resume very, very shortly.