Wild horses...

As if the roulette tables of Las Vegas were not enough, the husband and I trollied off to Newbury to watch some horse racing on Saturday.  We'd gone with Miss R, The Mother and her partner Step Daddy Dick.  Also somewhere in the vicinity were Mrs Jangles and My cousin and her chap, and several other jolly friends.  To be honest, if I hadn't seen photographic proof that this other section of my family were there, I might have questioned that they were there at all, as over the span of nine races and eight hours, we didn't see them once.

Now the husband and I are very sensible gamblers, taking what we are prepared to lose and no more. Having won a fair chunk of money on the 'slots' in Vegas, I was pretty sure that Lady Luck had, along with a rather shabby Elvis, left the building.  Surely I couldn't be that lucky again.

There's something about taking money to the races with the expectation of coming back empty handed, and armed with a stiff drink, I studied the form on my race card.  I know absolutely nothing about horses, so my horse choices are usually based on one of the following:

The colour of their silks - do they complement each other or do they look like an explosion in a Dulux factory?

Funny name - I like a funny name (not running recently, but one of my favourites of all time was Fleet Flat Feet - try saying that after a couple of sherbets).  

Offspring's names - If the horse's name contains any part of one of my children's names, they always get picked. 

Biro - if there is nothing which catches my eye using the above method, then I resort to the tried and tested method of closing my eyes and blindly stabbing at my race card with a biro.

Well ladies, I did rather well yesterday, winning on eight of the nine races.  Nothing major, but enough to keep the drinks flowing.  By the time I got to race eight, I was on a roll, and I studied the race card to see who would be my betting choice.  Well none of the silks were particularly pretty, and the names were all fairly boring.

Except for one.  Torcello - chosen because it reminded me of Limoncello which proves that rather too much vodka had been imbibed at that point in the afternoon.

'Have you seen the odds on that horse?' asked the husband when I walked back from my bookie of choice, Mr Jig.  'They are so huge that I wouldn't be surprised if he's still in the stable wearing a smoking jacket and setting up a game of chess with his trainer'.  Miss R piped up at this point, 'He's probably got his hooves up and listing to The Archers', she said.

After much ribbing, the two of them slunk off to the bookies and put a couple of quid on the horse.

 And guess what?

It only came in bloody first.

We shall be eating like kings this week.  

Well I will, as the husband is on Humble Pie...