Slack Jawed Babbling

I’ve been quietly cultivating a teenage mate of my daughter’s in the art of proper punting. From an early age he showed promise. When our two families went to the races he steadfastly refused to bet on the basis of gaudy colours, alliteration, or some such impulsive nonsense. Even when the girls in our group were cleaning up at Newmarket because they liked the jockey named ‘Barzelona’, he resisted. Mikael Barzelona rode a hat trick that day. I told CB-D not to worry. It was all about the long game and shrewd punting would always win out. Eventually. A recent blog on here noted the progress made by CB-D now he’s old enough to place his own bets (and buy his own beers) at Sandown. There was evidence of actual, proper form-based punting. Our family trip to the Peaks the other week coincided with Royal Ascot. CB-D texted me on Day 1 to say that, in effect, he was going to have 'a proper good go'. He’d dedicated some quality time to study, weighing up various combinations

The northern, dog–friendly, log-cabin-with-hot-tub, mid-week break with Grandad and Bruv is becoming a bit of a feature of our Summers.   This year, we bagged some decent weather as well. Even in the Peak District. Travelling up the M1 in 32-degree heat was no joke though, especially with my hairy dog twitching between my legs. Ahem. Nuca is a Tibetan terrier (mostly), more accustomed to biting winds channelled through Himalayan passes than a super-heated asphalt motorway. She doesn’t like car journeys at the best of times. In that heat, we were reluctant to put her in the back with all the luggage. Hence her nominal berth in the footwell on my side of the charabanc. I say nominal because she spent most of the time on my lap with her head out the window and tongue lolling into the hard shoulder. Drool and sticky dribble everywhere. The dog’s reluctance to travel in the car at all – any part of it - had found a new manifestation only the day before. We had all m