Grand Ambitions

My grandest ambition for today was another win on the National. Another to follow up last year: my first year placing a bet and my first win. I have to thank my brother, as without him it wouldn't have happened. I got a somewhat desperate text from him, holidaying in Spain, the day before last year's race asking me to put a tenner on some horse (can't remember the name but think it had won the Welsh National), remarking that our mother, who he'd clearly asked first, "didn't know where the bookies was". We took this to mean something along the lines of "I don't want to enter any such den of iniquity". Anyway, despite having no idea how to place a bet, I was content to oblige and found I readily knew the location of at least half a dozen betting shops.

I decided that if I was putting on a bet for him then I'd have a go myself, studied a Saturday morning paper's pull out National supplement over breakfast and drew up a shortlist of two. Thus prepared, I took a minor five metre detour on my way to my regular Saturday morning gym classes to the bookies that was practically next door. Having descended an anonymous set of stairs behind the encouragingly open door, I found an empty room and a very obliging member of staff who seemed delighted to help me fill in my slips and made what turned out to be a gem of a suggestion to fix my odds. Having handed over thirty quid, I texted my brother and headed off to the gym thinking that I'd done my bit to swell the bookmakers' coffers.

My brother phoned me the moment his plane landed in the UK asking what the result had been. Sadly, as this was half an hour before the race started, I couldn't help him. Turned out he would have been able to place his own wager after all. Glad it's not just me that gets confused with time zones and the 24 hour clock. I settled down to watch the race with the three betting slips in front of me, plus the two names I'd drawn from the office sweepstake, and decided that it'd be reasonable if three out of the five finished and having no higher aspirations than that. I've no idea now of the names of the other four horses and only a vague recollection of how they finished. I have a suspicion that my brother's horse fell and one of my sweepstake horses came in last. I held my breath as the remaining horses jumped the last and began the run home. My horse (Don't Push It) was in the lead and crossed the line first! Thanks to my brother's holiday, my mother's squeamishness and a helpful bookie, I was now £200 better off. In a fit of sibling love, or possibly post-winning euphoria, I even told my brother that his stake was on me.

I caused amusement amongst the boys in the office on Monday morning when I enquired how I went about claiming my winnings. I couldn't believe that it was as simple as presenting my slip to the bookies. There were several volunteers prepared to do it for me in exchange for a small fee. But I did it myself, was congratulated warmly by a different member of staff and handed £210; I hadn't realised that I'd get my stake back. Spent the money, of course, several times over and enjoyed every penny.

This year, with my brother safely in the UK and able to sort his own wager, I made a deal with myself. If I did my double gym class, sacrificed a second consecutive day of sunny cricket at The Oval and spent a couple of hours tackling the jungle that used to be the back garden, I'd get another winner. Think it worked? Of course not. Having decided that it would be pushing it to count on A P McCoy and Don’t Push It to deliver for me again (right on that count), I consulted this year's pull out supplement, selected three names and visited the same betting shop. Did a much better job filling in the slips myself, handed over another £30, sweated through my gym classes and headed home to the jungle.

Two hours of hacking at brambles and pulling out miles of bindweed later, I had filled three recycling bags and it was half an hour to the race start. I took a few minutes to reflect upon the progress I'd made in the garden, ignoring how much more there was to do, made a cup of tea and settled down to watch. I don't suppose that I'd really expected history to repeat itself, and it didn't: I didn't win and Don't Push It came in third. As it became obvious that my horses weren't going to win (two fell and the other was sixth), my worst fear became that Don't Push It would win and I'd feel bad about my disloyalty.

What have I learned? That having a little flutter on the National is enjoyable, whatever the outcome - but winning is terrific fun. That picking a winner is a lottery and certainly can't be influenced by stacking up indulgences. And that pulling out bindweed is a really rewarding task! Can't wait for the full recycling sacks to be collected so that I can fill them up again. Who knows, by the end of the summer, I might have reclaimed my garden. Which would be fab for me but not so great for the member of the local fox community who finds it a good den and a whole mixed flock of sparrows and blue tits who have a lovely time each morning tweeting and fluttering in and out of the brambles. Perhaps, as my ever helpful brother suggests, I can reclaim half and leave the other for them? Moreover, perhaps I can persuade him to go on holiday for next year's race and let me place his bet?