And They're Off!

Okay, I succumbed,  I watched breakfast television for tips, and armed with a few names, attended the local TAB and got the kindly officer with a green shirt on reading 'ASK ME HOW' to help me place a few each-way bets.  The country tends to lose its collective shit on Melbourne Cup Day, doesn't it?  Horse racing interests me only slightly more than the bowel habits of turtles, as a rule.  Yet, along with everyone else it would appear, I get just a little bit interested on Cup Day and have a flutter on the GGs.  I have only ever attended three race meetings in my life.  The first was in 1993 when I first stated dating my now-husband.  It was in my home town and my father was clerk of the course.  I didn't even think to wear a hat.  The second time I went was as a hospitality student at the Scone Cup, and I was actually working, ie, passing around plates of sangers to the socialites.  I did very good silver service at the buffet, doling out the boiled spuds to the punters as they passed by with their plates.  I also almost had my head bitten off by a very well known socialite who often graced the relevant pages of the Sunday papers.  I offered to clear her coffee cup, which had dregs and more foggy cloud than Canberra airport on a winter morning.  'I haven't finished!' she barked, in the manner of a demented Chihuahua.  I felt like saying, 'One more facelift, lady, and you'll have a beard!'  The third time I attended was at a local meet about a year ago with a friend who, as a horse trainer, had credentials which enabled me to enter the private bar and use the ladies room there.  I am normally more than happy to use the same facilities as the hoi polloi, but the public loos were infested with big, horrible, slimy, green frogs ,and I am highly amphibiphobic.  I don't know why; I just hate the slimy jumping fuckers, that's all.  Anyway, go Fiorente, or Mount Athos, or Dandino!

Anyway, I will try and get a little bit of writing done before I lie down.  It is my day off today, and I am suffering a head cold that is fast travelling down the chest.  I would like a little snooze-a-roo before the kids get home.  Whether I watch the race or not, is not decided.  Watching it will not make 'my' horse win, so I don't care too much if I miss it - although I do get a chuckle at the frenetic ranting of the race callers, who always sound as though they are about to simultaneously blow the springs in their heads, and evacuate their bowels.