Janet Christie: “He’s speaking to me, telling me to bet on him”

By JANET CHRISTIE
Published on 30/01/2013 13:37

What better way to spend a day off than at Musselburgh Races? Youngest Child loves horses and her Christmas cash is burning a hole in my pocket.

Why hand it over to swindling bankers when we could blow it in a feckless frenzy on the fillies?

We study the horses in the pre-race parade. “Aw, that one’s nice isn’t it,” I say. “I like his sheepskin noseband.”

“For God’s sake, mother,” she sighs, waving the programme. “His jockey looks my age. I’m choosing that big one, long muscly legs, his rider’s won lots already. A tenner, I reckon.”

She points at a huge snorting steed, as mine walks right in front of us. It fixes me with a giantMalteser eye and turns its head to keep eye contact as it passes.

“Look, look,” I nudge Youngest Child. “He’s speaking to me, telling me to bet on him.”

“Whatever.”

I place our bets, my parsimony limiting us to a £2.50 stake.

“You’ll regret that,” she says, striding up to the barrier, all Clare Balding calm, as I fret about whipping/falling scenarios. The race is over in a flash, with Youngest bellowing like a banshee as her horse romps home, mine slowed to a walk of shame.

“Ha, ha. When yours spoke to you … he was saying, don’t do it.”

She wins the next race too. Sob.