Today, frost allowing, the Olympics of jump racing roars into action. Idle will have to watch the first four Tuesday races on the office telly, but on Wednesday and Thursday he will be sinking Guinness almost as fast as that fat Cockney Irishman Guido Fawkes and improving the lives of Betfair shareholders and a few select on-course bookies. Leaving Cheltenham in profit shouldn't be that hard, but I manage to cock it up every other year. Now I think about it, I was about even last year, so 2013 could go either way. Maybe I'll win my annual golf match on Wednesday morning on a frozen Cirencester golf course and be a tenner to the good that way.
On Thursday evening, Idle had better find his car and an unpatrolled highway to Sussex, or the biggest stewards' enquiry of the week will be underway; Lady Idle, born and brought up in the tropics, goes into a SAD decline round about mid-January and the snow and mud of this winter caused an acute attack, solved only by Idle booking nine days in the Caribbean. So it's Bridgetown instead of Gloucestershire on Friday morning, and Long Run will simply have to regain his crown without me. Or maybe Bobs Worth. Or another one (see how decisive I am at this betting game?).
I'll be somewhere near Mullins Bay if you need me.