I could feel the sun blistering my skin through the blue cotton shirt.
If I was a betting man, I'd say this was the hottest day of the Summer so far. By a distance.
It's late July and I'm in Chester for the annual Roman Day horse-racing meeting, enjoying the atmosphere outside Watergates, sitting under a dark blue monogrammed parasol with the first of many discarded champagne bottles warming beside us as the glare of the afternoon sun breaks past the shade and lasers my neck. Men with jackets casually slung over their shoulders pass down the cobbled street as the women cat-walk beside them, thighs silhouetted as the light shines through semi-transparent fabrics.
A Cohort of centurions in full battle gear stride through the walled gates in front of us, only their fags and pints of lager giving away 2,000 years of evolution. Their haste suggests its time for us to drag ourselves from our comfort and seek out fresh champagne at the course itself. We buy our Enclosure tickets from the enterprising ticket-touts at the perimeter fence and after a brief sweaty funnel through the main gates, we're inside.
With only 20 minutes to the first race, theres no time to study form or look over the shoulder of someone who's yellowed fingers and shiny suit suggests they know what they're doing. Instead, as we queue at the Tote, the young lady in front of us swishes her hair back to clear some rogue strands stuck to her gently perspiring face as the Dapple Grey mare in the parade-ring beside us does exactly the same.
The young lady flashes a toothfully equine smile at her companion and I know I have my horse.
"Thirty pounds on the Grey to win"
"What number"
"No idea mate. It's the one over there"
"OK. So thats thirty pounds win on Number 8. Golden Autumn. Thanks fella. Good luck"
I grab my curly print-out and watch as my companions foolishly follow my lead and before long we are all riding the Grey, divine intervention easily outweighing evidence and common sense.
Down on the course, the crowds are too deep at the rails so we head straight off to the champagne tent to watch the race on the big screen.
At first the omens are poor and my thirty pounds seems to be fluttering away on the gentle breeze. However, the jockey gets more animated at five furlongs as he clearly feels, as we do, that the horse has something more to give.
Another furlong of indifference passes but then, when she finally responds to the wee-man's furious whipping and kicking, Golden Autumn leaves the rest of the field for dead at the two furlong marker and before she has passed the winning post we are already hammering on the Tote window waving our betting slips in triumph.
At eleven-to-one we collect our freakish windfalls and with my Fantasy Guest beaming beside me I know it's already a day to remember.
495 words
