Scooping the Sweepstake

On a day when Mr Ramprakash passed 35,000 first class runs, and went 39th on the all-time list, I had my own, albeit it comparatively miniscule, success: my second ever betting win. (See Grand Ambitions for the first.) Today was Day 2 of the County Championship match between Surrey and Glamorgan at The Oval. Despite Mr Ramprakash's milestone, Alviro Petersen's maiden double century and a record third wicket stand for Glamorgan against Surrey, it hadn't - like yesterday - been the most exciting day of cricket when the tenth Glamorgan wicket fell a couple of balls after lunch. Enthusiasm was reasonably high for a sweepstake and, somewhat predictably, the Surrey score at close of play was selected. Guesses ranged from 205 to 281, with number of wickets down from the supremely optimistic none to five. Bids were noted, pounds produced and a banker appointed. Only one of the participants seemed at all concerned about the outcome, assuming that, even before scoring slowed and wickets were falling, his lowest total would prevail. We heard many plans of what he'd be doing with his winnings and his repeated clarification with the banker that the nearest number would win rather than going bust when one's score was passed.

For a while, it did seem that his faith would be rewarded. However, as the number of overs remaining neared single figures, uncertainty began to enter his voice. The batsmen kept up a reasonable rate and his total, and then the upper limit of his range, passed with overs still to be bowled. It seemed that Surrey might make nearer 250 than 200 - and so it turned out. Play concluded at the end of the sixty sixth over, the score was 240-6 and the nearest guess 243. And it was mine! Good job that wickets down was only to be used as a tie-breaker since, with the usual optimism of my simple plans, I'd gone for without loss. The pot was handed over with much goodwill and now I have the hard job of working out exactly how best to spend … six quid!

Canalway Cavalcade

The Royal Wedding/May Day public holiday weekend saw London's Little Venice hosting the 2011 Canalway Cavalcade.  Having enjoyed several canal boat family holidays, and always keen to visit any of London's waterways and bridges, I happily headed north in glorious sunshine.  In its oasis of leafy calm, there were oads of gorgeously decorated canal boats moored side by side.  The towpath was lined with interesting little stalls selling a tempting range of food, trinkets and suchlike, music played, Morris men danced, beer was drunk, Punch & Judy performed and, apart from a few unfortunate stall-holders trapped in the shade and a surprisingly biting breeze, a good time appeared to be being had by many.

I discovered Britain's Best Pork Scratchings, couldn't resist a bag of fluffy pink candyfloss, found a solution for sunbathing with shorter hair, and bought a tray of little herb plants.  The first two, with a glass of Pernod, provided me with a really yummy mid-afternoon snack when I got home, which was quickly followed by some authentically sticky baklava.  Balanced diet not - but a lot of fun and perhaps a combination soon to seen on a Heston Blumenthal menu.  Amazingly, ten days on, the herbs are still alive - and even thriving, apart from the basil, which seems to be the local snails' current favourite snack - on my kitchen windowsill; giving me hope that I might be capable of growing something green after all.

It was a downside not to be able to revisit my memories of standing on a canal boat and feeling the floor move beneath my feet - and perhaps the detrimental effects of quite such a large sugar and fat blast on my waistline and teeth.  Dangerously, I've discovered that the pork scratchings are available by post: can't see that I'm going to be able to resist indulging again, although perhaps I'll just partner them with the Pernod next time …

End of a Perfect Partnership?

I've been wondering how the 30,000+ runners who completed yesterday's London Marathon are feeling today.  Particularly, I've been considering whether any of them could really be feeling disappointed.  Surely even those who did not achieve their target times must be feeling huge satisfaction at having made it around the course?  I guess that some who didn't finish could be feeling regret but for those who crossed the line, I'm struggling to think that any of them aren't feeling a good deal of pride.  And deservedly so.  I watched for about an hour at the Tower of London and was so impressed by how many were running smoothly, steadily and without distress at that point and were destined to finish in about four hours.  I had a degree of uneasiness, however, at seeing those who were really struggling.  It felt voyeuristic to be privy to their personal distress.  Hopefully, the support of the spectators was evidence to them and helped a bit.

While watching, I asked a friend who had run a couple of years ago what guidance was given about post-marathon training.  He looked somewhat taken aback, as if such a concept had never occurred to him, which it apparently hadn't, and then revealed that he'd barely run since.  Two things struck me.  Firstly, why was there no guidance about what to do next, when there is loads about how to prepare?  Presumably, it's a good thing to encourage those who have managed such a feat to continue to run, for their health and personal enjoyment if not to ever do another 26+ miles?  Secondly, for how many people did crossing the line on The Mall yesterday mark the end of a beautiful partnership between them and their trusty trainers?  I had a vision of thousands of pairs of the latter being consigned to dusty cupboard corners with no cognisance of their part in their owners' success.

My relationship with my own trainers is very different from that between those who ran and were run in yesterday.  My trainers do their work inside the gym only and, as a result, they tend to look pristine, hinting even at a lack of use, for a very long time.  They're certainly never asked to run 26+ miles but they've been through hundreds of Step, toning, LBT and Body Pump classes.

My previous trainers had led an entirely indoor existence until they accompanied me to the other side of the world.  Their first outdoor trip was to climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which was an amazing adventure for me and, I hope, just as good for them.  Sadly, their life since then has been far less glamorous: they've been replaced as my gym trainers and now get an occasional family dog/children-walking trip across muddy fields to a cosy pub and to walk the streets and bridges of London.

My relationship with my current trainers is even more personal, as I designed them myself and they are unique.  They are pretty and make me smile each time I see them (easily pleased) but their real importance to me is that, like their predecessors, I have a lot of fun while wearing them.  I hope most of those who ran yesterday say the same about theirs.

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?