(Dickie Johnson - three short-priced winners)
Loss on day £175
Yesterday seemed a significant day.
Charlie Appleby trained the first British winner of the Melbourne Cup. Which gave me a spring in my step first thing, as I’d backed him. As you can see that was about as good as the day got.
Egg, aka Rick Grimes, died in The Walking Dead. Or rather, died slowly over the hour but was then whisked off in a helicopter to star in three spin-off films – which seemed like a metaphor for the show itself.
America went to the polling booths to provide a half-time vote of confidence, or not, on old Cunty McCunt face. Which, to my basically uninformed eye, looked to be a relegation six-pointer that predictably ended up as a desperate score draw. Which I guess is progress.
And a line of poetry popped unbidden into my head. This was the first piece of poetry I have channelled/written down all year. I have been keeping the voices at bay by obsessing about gambling and putting the hours in. But, finally, a voice managed to creep through the battle-lines. Not a very good line, admittedly, but I’ll keep a wary ear out.
Always, there’s a place where the wall is higher.