Ah! mon Dieu! Is that .. could it be .. grass?!!!!!
Monday, March 29, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
The mixed pickles of March
.
In between the spasms of horsework, housework (Sarah is back from her honeymoon, hallelujah!) and writing work, there’s always something out-of-the-ordinary to do around here..
Last night, in the quickly descending dusk, Wendy and I were out in the horse yards of Gerolstein, hand-sowing a hectare of new grass in a neat bit of teamwork, especially for a pair who’ve never done any such thing in their lives. Neighbour Tony had pulled his sharp harrows through the baked and sprayed-dead paddocks ... we raked and culled the mostly browned-off megaweeds into a huge firestack, and then I set off to scatter – with a good biblical motion .. a dozen kilos of pink and blue CRT seed over the said hectare and a bit of land. Wendy followed behind with a home-made rake concocted from the ride-on mower, pulling behind it a screen, and laden down with an old gate and a heavy tyre…
Our improvised system seems to have worked remarkably, although I was clearly a bit heavy on my sowing gestures, as we got through nearly thirty kilos of seed, before sinking gratefully into a hot shower, a djellaba and a bottle of something crisp, in front of the evening’s racing.
Now it’s a case of keeping all those paddocks damp for a week to allow a little germination: this will, I suppose, be the moment when the iffy Christchurch autumn chooses to blossom into burning days…
Watch this space for the first blades.
My other unusual event these last days has been a visit to NASDA. That stands for National Academy of Singing and Dramatic Art.
Yes, I know. I retired years back. I don’t do the twentieth-to-21st century of theatre any more, just the 19th, but … principal Richard Marrett, an old pal, convinced me that inculcated skills never die and that it would be good for the pupils to be confronted by someone – and someome from little old Christchurch what’s more -- who had been and done what they are striving to be and do: so I went. And now I am all involved. So far, I’ve only chatted with the students (79 of them), and some of them with me, I’ve listened to sixteen of them in a ‘performance practice’ class, and I’ve talked a little with their principal teachers. But, when I return, I think a few ‘master classes’ with the more advanced and promising (and vocally interesting) young folk will be in order … and, well, we’ll see. If I enjoy them and they enjoy me, if I can inculcate professionalism into them as well as performing skills, then perhaps I still do have some thing to offer.
Another space to watch, but not till the southern spring.
PS It seems I am to become a NASDA-ic fixture if http://www.facebook.com/pages/Chubbs-dont-get-in-the-Chorus-Line/354806592497 is to be believed
In between the spasms of horsework, housework (Sarah is back from her honeymoon, hallelujah!) and writing work, there’s always something out-of-the-ordinary to do around here..
Last night, in the quickly descending dusk, Wendy and I were out in the horse yards of Gerolstein, hand-sowing a hectare of new grass in a neat bit of teamwork, especially for a pair who’ve never done any such thing in their lives. Neighbour Tony had pulled his sharp harrows through the baked and sprayed-dead paddocks ... we raked and culled the mostly browned-off megaweeds into a huge firestack, and then I set off to scatter – with a good biblical motion .. a dozen kilos of pink and blue CRT seed over the said hectare and a bit of land. Wendy followed behind with a home-made rake concocted from the ride-on mower, pulling behind it a screen, and laden down with an old gate and a heavy tyre…
Our improvised system seems to have worked remarkably, although I was clearly a bit heavy on my sowing gestures, as we got through nearly thirty kilos of seed, before sinking gratefully into a hot shower, a djellaba and a bottle of something crisp, in front of the evening’s racing.
Now it’s a case of keeping all those paddocks damp for a week to allow a little germination: this will, I suppose, be the moment when the iffy Christchurch autumn chooses to blossom into burning days…
Watch this space for the first blades.
My other unusual event these last days has been a visit to NASDA. That stands for National Academy of Singing and Dramatic Art.
Yes, I know. I retired years back. I don’t do the twentieth-to-21st century of theatre any more, just the 19th, but … principal Richard Marrett, an old pal, convinced me that inculcated skills never die and that it would be good for the pupils to be confronted by someone – and someome from little old Christchurch what’s more -- who had been and done what they are striving to be and do: so I went. And now I am all involved. So far, I’ve only chatted with the students (79 of them), and some of them with me, I’ve listened to sixteen of them in a ‘performance practice’ class, and I’ve talked a little with their principal teachers. But, when I return, I think a few ‘master classes’ with the more advanced and promising (and vocally interesting) young folk will be in order … and, well, we’ll see. If I enjoy them and they enjoy me, if I can inculcate professionalism into them as well as performing skills, then perhaps I still do have some thing to offer.
Another space to watch, but not till the southern spring.
PS It seems I am to become a NASDA-ic fixture if http://www.facebook.com/pages/Chubbs-dont-get-in-the-Chorus-Line/354806592497 is to be believed
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Tenor hits a 'C'
Not a top C, not yet .. but decidedly not a flat note ..!
Its been a busy horsey week…
Rose and Mikie (right) off for an ‘acclimatisation’ run round at the Motukarara workouts for the first time in their shocked lives
The arrival of our newest ‘boarder’, a tiny filly out of ‘Kim’, a mare who once lived here and behind whom Jan won a race…
Elena out on holidays and Agnes about to start lessons..
And now, at last, seven or eight months later than originally intended – thanks to bugs and to snow – my beautiful French colt, Ténor des Baux, finally made it to the races. At Bihorel, just outside Rouen. It was a ‘country’ race for three year-old male beginners (only two horses of the ten had ever been to the races before) …
Alas, France isn’t up to New Zealand in letting you watch the races minutes after they are run, so I have to wait a bit for that, but I do know that, in spite of pulling behind what I guess was a ‘country’ pace … he came third! It must have been close, for he was originally called second, but I shall soon see.
He hasn’t started out with quite the splash which Rosy did (she won first try), but I suspect, deep down inside, he will go on to do more than she has. He is evidently a nice horse, and I can expect some happy times racing him.
So bravo Ténor .. ‘encore’!!!
Postscript: I've seen it. He led, trailed, and ran on OK. But he ran greenly, pulled .. and the winner won comfortably, with Tenor getting pipped half a length into his third place. Will do better!
5 Thunder Mountain M 3 2500 Ph. Gillot Ecurie AB Trot F. Blandin
4 Théo Le Beau H 3 2500 C. Deffaux P. Boursier X. Thevenet
2 Ténor des Baux M3 2500 M. Hue K.-F. Ganzl M. Hue
6 Tropic Somolli M3 2500 B. Marie G. Braquet F. Blandin
3 Théo des Vauchaux M3 2500 C. Thierry Ecurie Darche F. Blandin
9 Tienno Montaval H3 2500 R. Archenoul Mme B. Chaudemanche R. Archenoul
7 Ty Breizh H3 2500 P.-L. Rousseau P.-L. Rousseau P.-L. Rousseau
1 Tempo d'Ecajeul M3 2500 F. Blandin E. Grelier F. Blandin
8 Tyrol Maxentais H3 2500 A. Muidebled A. Muidebled A. Muidebled
10 Totem Indien H3 2500 T. DesmarresT. Desmarres Syl. Desmarres
Origines
1er Thunder Mountain Orlando Vici Foolish Princess Passionnant M. P. Eskenazi
2ème Théo Le Beau Diable Indien Léa des Bosquets Eclat de la Crau M. X. Thevenet
3ème Ténor des Baux Fier des Baux Mademoiselle Fleur Carpe Diem M. B. Hue et Mme F. Hue
Répartition des allocations 4.000 € - 2.000 € - 1.040 € - 480 € - 240 € - 160 € - 80 €
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
A Gerolsteiner Landmark or, Duchess’s Divvie…
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I’ve been breeding trotters in a very small way for six or seven years now. Not, it has to be said, with any notable success.
My first baby, Duchess, was too wicked to make a racehorse; the second and the third, Boris and Wanda, qualified, but never made it to the track..
But then came the year of two mares. Gwen bore her fourth baby, little Seppl, and the Duchess her first, his playmate Fritzl, known to race commentators as The Soldier Fritz.
Fritzl not only did make it to the races, last year as a two year-old he even raced in some of the classic juvenile races and finished fourth in the New Zealand Trotting Stakes. A landmark … a cheque … but not yet an official 1-2-3 place.
And now they are three year-olds, those two little boys, and if you follow this blog you’ll have read about Seppl’s two encouraging trial wins, and Fritzl’s fine, front-running workout the other day against the champion Glenbogle. Surely one or other of the two would soon break Gerolstein’s duck, and post a divvie.
Well, today Fritzl lined up for his first ‘normal’ race. No classic, just a straightforward maiden handicap in the sunshine of Ashburton. Given his workout effort, I was quite surprised to see he was paying 25-1 on the tote… but since I don’t bet. what did I care?
I was chuffed to see him behave nicely at the start, in spite of interminable waits for ill-schooled horses, I was chuffed to see him go away smoothly if slowly, whilst around him other horses were prancing and galloping, and when they settled down, there he was perfectly placed in fifth, on the outside.
Well, give or take the galloping (of others) it wasn’t a hugely adventurous race, and into the straight there he still was, poised behind the raceaway leader and the other better-behaved horses. ‘Go whoosh!’ cried my heart…
Well, he didn’t go whoosh. Maybe he doesn’t or can’t, or it was too dangerous for an effective first race to try to ... but the wee boy wound up gradually as others weakened and, when the post arrived .. our Fritzl was third! Beaten a length and a bit, and a neck. (I think, later, looking back we might be quite pleased to have been only a neck from Zealous Lady.) And when the result went up, he had paid a fine $6.60 for a place…
Eleven years ago, in April 1999, my very first horse, Davey Crockett, went to the races for the first time, in a maiden handicap at Hawera. He, too, finished third (though less well behaved). And he paid $5.00. Davey went on to win five races for me.. and I went on in search of other landmarks.
Today is one.
Our first home-bred divvie.
Bless you, little Fritzl!
And I guess I'd better toddle down the back paddock and tell Duchess...
PS We are hugely lucky here in the South Island of NEw Zealand to have probably the best racing photographers I've encountered anywhere in the world -- Colin and Ajay Berry of Race Images, take a bow! The walls of Gerolstein drip with the pictures they've taken of our horses over the last decade, and here's what they've sent me of today... a lovely photo of the wee boy in the running, and another showing him finishing on down the outside for third..
I’ve been breeding trotters in a very small way for six or seven years now. Not, it has to be said, with any notable success.
My first baby, Duchess, was too wicked to make a racehorse; the second and the third, Boris and Wanda, qualified, but never made it to the track..
But then came the year of two mares. Gwen bore her fourth baby, little Seppl, and the Duchess her first, his playmate Fritzl, known to race commentators as The Soldier Fritz.
Fritzl not only did make it to the races, last year as a two year-old he even raced in some of the classic juvenile races and finished fourth in the New Zealand Trotting Stakes. A landmark … a cheque … but not yet an official 1-2-3 place.
And now they are three year-olds, those two little boys, and if you follow this blog you’ll have read about Seppl’s two encouraging trial wins, and Fritzl’s fine, front-running workout the other day against the champion Glenbogle. Surely one or other of the two would soon break Gerolstein’s duck, and post a divvie.
Well, today Fritzl lined up for his first ‘normal’ race. No classic, just a straightforward maiden handicap in the sunshine of Ashburton. Given his workout effort, I was quite surprised to see he was paying 25-1 on the tote… but since I don’t bet. what did I care?
I was chuffed to see him behave nicely at the start, in spite of interminable waits for ill-schooled horses, I was chuffed to see him go away smoothly if slowly, whilst around him other horses were prancing and galloping, and when they settled down, there he was perfectly placed in fifth, on the outside.
Well, give or take the galloping (of others) it wasn’t a hugely adventurous race, and into the straight there he still was, poised behind the raceaway leader and the other better-behaved horses. ‘Go whoosh!’ cried my heart…
Well, he didn’t go whoosh. Maybe he doesn’t or can’t, or it was too dangerous for an effective first race to try to ... but the wee boy wound up gradually as others weakened and, when the post arrived .. our Fritzl was third! Beaten a length and a bit, and a neck. (I think, later, looking back we might be quite pleased to have been only a neck from Zealous Lady.) And when the result went up, he had paid a fine $6.60 for a place…
Eleven years ago, in April 1999, my very first horse, Davey Crockett, went to the races for the first time, in a maiden handicap at Hawera. He, too, finished third (though less well behaved). And he paid $5.00. Davey went on to win five races for me.. and I went on in search of other landmarks.
Today is one.
Our first home-bred divvie.
Bless you, little Fritzl!
And I guess I'd better toddle down the back paddock and tell Duchess...
PS We are hugely lucky here in the South Island of NEw Zealand to have probably the best racing photographers I've encountered anywhere in the world -- Colin and Ajay Berry of Race Images, take a bow! The walls of Gerolstein drip with the pictures they've taken of our horses over the last decade, and here's what they've sent me of today... a lovely photo of the wee boy in the running, and another showing him finishing on down the outside for third..
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Ring and I
.
I have never seen Wagner’s ultra-celebrated Der Ring des Nibelungen whole, complete and in order. Not on the stage, anyway. Like anyone and everyone else who is or was interested in opera, I remember the famously filmed Patrice Chéreau version of umpteen years ago, which -- via British television -- allowed people like myself (with very limited German) finally to follow the story and even much of the poetry as well as enjoy the music. And over the years I have seen a handful of theatre versions of the various Ring-components: from a sceneryless Walküre at the Nice Opera House in the early 1970s to an unmemorable Siegfried at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden in a year which I also forget. But that’s it.
It shouldn’t have happened that way. After all, I was brought up in a home where the stories and music from the Ring, were as familiar as nursery-rhymes, and one of the first long-playing recordings which I owned – aged about ten -- was of Astrid Varnay’s Bayreuth Brünnhilde. I must have worn it out, as I don’t have it any more.
Then, aged fifteen or so, when I discovered the big basso voice that would change my life, one of the first pieces of music into which, with the rashness of youth, I greedily flung myself was Wotan’s Farewell. By the time I became a professional singer – with a voice ending at E natural -- I had downsized my ambitions to Hunding. Which wasn’t really much more practical, given that I boasted a twenty-six inch waist, no shoulders to speak of, and weighed in around nine stone.
Well, I never got to sing Hunding. I transmuted over the years from operatic basso into musical-theatre guru, and for many years – partly dissuaded by silly, ‘trendy’ stagings -- I did not even visit the world’s opera houses.
But, fifty years on from those Astrid Varnay days, I have come full circle. Once again, I listen to, enjoy and write about operatic music and operatic singers, once again I have put my nose and ears into an opera house, and now – with my pension book in sight –finally I am going to see (and, of course, write about) a whole, entire four-nights Ring des Nibelungen cycle. In a few weeks, I leave Sefton, New Zealand, for Berlin …
I am trying to have no preconceptions, no fixed ideas. I am not swatting up the half-forgotten details and music of Wagner’s work. I want to come to this as a piece of fresh and ‘new’ music-theatre. Which, I imagine, will make me the only writer-cum-critic in the world, amongst the hundreds who know the piece note and word perfectly, in such a position…
Watch this space!
I have never seen Wagner’s ultra-celebrated Der Ring des Nibelungen whole, complete and in order. Not on the stage, anyway. Like anyone and everyone else who is or was interested in opera, I remember the famously filmed Patrice Chéreau version of umpteen years ago, which -- via British television -- allowed people like myself (with very limited German) finally to follow the story and even much of the poetry as well as enjoy the music. And over the years I have seen a handful of theatre versions of the various Ring-components: from a sceneryless Walküre at the Nice Opera House in the early 1970s to an unmemorable Siegfried at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden in a year which I also forget. But that’s it.
It shouldn’t have happened that way. After all, I was brought up in a home where the stories and music from the Ring, were as familiar as nursery-rhymes, and one of the first long-playing recordings which I owned – aged about ten -- was of Astrid Varnay’s Bayreuth Brünnhilde. I must have worn it out, as I don’t have it any more.
Then, aged fifteen or so, when I discovered the big basso voice that would change my life, one of the first pieces of music into which, with the rashness of youth, I greedily flung myself was Wotan’s Farewell. By the time I became a professional singer – with a voice ending at E natural -- I had downsized my ambitions to Hunding. Which wasn’t really much more practical, given that I boasted a twenty-six inch waist, no shoulders to speak of, and weighed in around nine stone.
Well, I never got to sing Hunding. I transmuted over the years from operatic basso into musical-theatre guru, and for many years – partly dissuaded by silly, ‘trendy’ stagings -- I did not even visit the world’s opera houses.
But, fifty years on from those Astrid Varnay days, I have come full circle. Once again, I listen to, enjoy and write about operatic music and operatic singers, once again I have put my nose and ears into an opera house, and now – with my pension book in sight –finally I am going to see (and, of course, write about) a whole, entire four-nights Ring des Nibelungen cycle. In a few weeks, I leave Sefton, New Zealand, for Berlin …
I am trying to have no preconceptions, no fixed ideas. I am not swatting up the half-forgotten details and music of Wagner’s work. I want to come to this as a piece of fresh and ‘new’ music-theatre. Which, I imagine, will make me the only writer-cum-critic in the world, amongst the hundreds who know the piece note and word perfectly, in such a position…
Watch this space!
Weaned, or Where's my mamma?
.
Douchelette's hooning days are done for a wee while. It's the big wean time. And she is not at all happy about it. In fact, she is sulking big time. Five acres and a couple of square metres are just not comparable...
Happily, however, there is little Uncle Mikie, through the prison bars, for company and conversation .. and on the other side big Auntie Rose...
All part of growing up, girl! So quit pouting and get into that adult food: broodmare mix and water instead of mother's milk..
Douchelette's hooning days are done for a wee while. It's the big wean time. And she is not at all happy about it. In fact, she is sulking big time. Five acres and a couple of square metres are just not comparable...
Happily, however, there is little Uncle Mikie, through the prison bars, for company and conversation .. and on the other side big Auntie Rose...
All part of growing up, girl! So quit pouting and get into that adult food: broodmare mix and water instead of mother's milk..
Friday, March 5, 2010
Photo of the day!
.
Today 'papa' Frank came out to visit Douchelette and, in spite of the grey and the rain, I popped my camera in my pocket before heading for the forest paddock...
A last photo with mama, in all probability, as tomorrow is set to be weaning day.
Almost as if they knew, mother and daughter put on a lively show for us
I am delighted to say that Frank has decided to christen this beautiful filly, by Love You out of La Grande-Duchesse, by the perfect name of 'Duchesse de l'Amour'
Today 'papa' Frank came out to visit Douchelette and, in spite of the grey and the rain, I popped my camera in my pocket before heading for the forest paddock...
A last photo with mama, in all probability, as tomorrow is set to be weaning day.
Almost as if they knew, mother and daughter put on a lively show for us
I am delighted to say that Frank has decided to christen this beautiful filly, by Love You out of La Grande-Duchesse, by the perfect name of 'Duchesse de l'Amour'
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The Bonzer Day (part two)
.
A beautiful, beautiful bride ,,
And the groom’s not half bad either…!
I don’t go to weddings. Up till today, I had been to just two in 64 years … clients of mine, in the days of my West End theatrical agency, and thus ‘obligatory’. Neither marriage lasted the year, I seem to remember. But I’m sure it will be ‘third time lucky’.
I simply had to break my ‘no weddings and funerals’ rule, this time, but for different reasons. For I think I can truthfully say that I did my part in making this happen.
Sarah, today’s bride, has been almost ‘family’ at Gerolstein for quite a few years. At first, she was the Nurse Maude nurse who helped me – and, oh goodness, how she helped me – through the difficult years of Ian’s last illness and death. And, afterwards, she continued to visit, to help me in keeping this ‘bachelor’ house in order.
Tony is the local locksmith, and he came here one day to change all the locks around the place after we’d suffered a visitation from a local ratbag. He was visibly in bad form, so, when the job was done, we opened a couple of bottles and he confided in me the history of a faithless wife and a marriage that had just ended.
Two lovely, giving, golden-hearted people, alone and not wanting to be ... ‘what’, I thought, ‘if I could get them together…’, and so I slid into match-making mode. Once I’d made sure the right facts had gone into the right ears, I was able to slide out of the picture. From there on in, they certainly didn’t need me!
And so, today, in a lovely simple sun-soaked ceremony in the garden of their Rangiora home, with Sarah’s sister as celebrant, and surrounded by their families, Sarah became Mrs Tony Beal. And no-one was happier than I.
Unless it be Sarah’s daughter, Lara – I met her when she was nine, and a few years later gave her dear old Dodo (Master Ado) for a riding horse -- oh boy, look at her now! ..
and Tony’s son, Sam, a delightful young man whom I met for the first time today, and who – like Lara – spoke his piece in the ceremony with considerable style.
Dear Sarah, dear Tony … you have many happy years together before you. Through them, please take with you … much love from Kurt
A beautiful, beautiful bride ,,
And the groom’s not half bad either…!
I don’t go to weddings. Up till today, I had been to just two in 64 years … clients of mine, in the days of my West End theatrical agency, and thus ‘obligatory’. Neither marriage lasted the year, I seem to remember. But I’m sure it will be ‘third time lucky’.
I simply had to break my ‘no weddings and funerals’ rule, this time, but for different reasons. For I think I can truthfully say that I did my part in making this happen.
Sarah, today’s bride, has been almost ‘family’ at Gerolstein for quite a few years. At first, she was the Nurse Maude nurse who helped me – and, oh goodness, how she helped me – through the difficult years of Ian’s last illness and death. And, afterwards, she continued to visit, to help me in keeping this ‘bachelor’ house in order.
Tony is the local locksmith, and he came here one day to change all the locks around the place after we’d suffered a visitation from a local ratbag. He was visibly in bad form, so, when the job was done, we opened a couple of bottles and he confided in me the history of a faithless wife and a marriage that had just ended.
Two lovely, giving, golden-hearted people, alone and not wanting to be ... ‘what’, I thought, ‘if I could get them together…’, and so I slid into match-making mode. Once I’d made sure the right facts had gone into the right ears, I was able to slide out of the picture. From there on in, they certainly didn’t need me!
And so, today, in a lovely simple sun-soaked ceremony in the garden of their Rangiora home, with Sarah’s sister as celebrant, and surrounded by their families, Sarah became Mrs Tony Beal. And no-one was happier than I.
Unless it be Sarah’s daughter, Lara – I met her when she was nine, and a few years later gave her dear old Dodo (Master Ado) for a riding horse -- oh boy, look at her now! ..
and Tony’s son, Sam, a delightful young man whom I met for the first time today, and who – like Lara – spoke his piece in the ceremony with considerable style.
Dear Sarah, dear Tony … you have many happy years together before you. Through them, please take with you … much love from Kurt
A double-headed Bonzer Day (part one)
.
I remember forty years ago and more visiting Motukarara racetrack and thinking it was one the most agreeable racing venues at which to spend a happy and sunny day out. I still think that. I also often think that I enjoy trials programmes more than actual raceday… and of course when our horses are running, and running well that just puts the candy on the cake.
Today, there was no problem about the sun. It was searing down at a round 30 degrees. And there were no problems with the horses!
Elena ran first, in a splendid thirteen one-win-horse field. How nice to see real ‘rehearsal races’ at the workouts instead of two or three beasts doing a glorified bit of home-training. John and Gavin being on duty elsewhere, Murray again got into the cart behind Elena, and she was in for a little bit of a surprise! There is no better driver in New Zealand than Murray for ‘gentling’ a horse into doing what he wants. With Elena, that’s not always so easy as she has a very strong mind of her own, and I have a bundle of scrapes and cuts and bruises to prove it.
So, against Elena’s ‘rules’ (race on the outside to give her ‘space’), Murray eased her to the inside, surrounded by horses, and she didn’t freak! Since we intend to race her Thursday, she was there for a stiff but not gutbusting cruise around, and that’s what she got. But with a finish. Murray pulled her from the back, three wide round the turn, and let her run home.. and run she did. There would have been five or six horses lined up across the track in the ‘photo for second’ and she was one of them. If Murray had turned the whip she would have been second. Very pleasing.
Photo.
No, not Elena this time, we have rather a lot of those. Yes, that’s Murray, but this is Fritzl. The other little boy, with Seppl, in the prize-winning old baby picture I posted here a few weeks back. Fritzl (The Soldier Fritz) started his career with a boom and a whistle, running fourth in the New Zealand Trotting Stakes for babies last season, but baby days are over and now its time for him to tackle grown-up racehorses. Today was his first tackle and I was a bit stunned the see him drawn in a heat with Glenbogle, the winner of sixteen races and a Grand Circuit champion, making a return to racing after a long injury. Glenbogle was handicapped to 150 metres behind, but when they lined up .. what! .. someone had forgotten to bring the 150m tape, so Glenbogle started right alongside our wee boy. Rather like a junior athlete alongside an Olympic medallist! Like me, the day I ran in an 800 metres heat against Peter Snell (led briefly, faded, last). And a standing start, too …
They all went away safely, under the whitening sun, Murray easing Fritzl slowly but surely into third place, but out of the straight on lap one, he pulled out and went to the front, and there he stayed, gradually increasing the pace and looking adorably adept.
Into the straight, and still ahead, with the others massed behind him .. well, fairystories have their limits. Glenbogle, which had doddled relaxedly round in last place decided actually to run the last couple of hundred metres and he shot past everyone else with ease. But I have this picture showing baby Fritzl – look at the difference between their physiques! -- running a genuine second behind a champion. The official result actually says he finished third, but here’s the photo (a few strides before the line admittedly). ‘Official results’ at workouts are notoriously approximate, and for me our wee boy was second.
So now it’s the races. Maybe Fritzl will have his first rising adult start on the same bill as Elena on Thursday .. thank goodness I decided to spend the month of March in New Zealand. And summer has come, too, just days off the opening of autumn..
No, not Elena this time, we have rather a lot of those. Yes, that’s Murray, but this is Fritzl. The other little boy, with Seppl, in the prize-winning old baby picture I posted here a few weeks back. Fritzl (The Soldier Fritz) started his career with a boom and a whistle, running fourth in the New Zealand Trotting Stakes for babies last season, but baby days are over and now its time for him to tackle grown-up racehorses. Today was his first tackle and I was a bit stunned the see him drawn in a heat with Glenbogle, the winner of sixteen races and a Grand Circuit champion, making a return to racing after a long injury. Glenbogle was handicapped to 150 metres behind, but when they lined up .. what! .. someone had forgotten to bring the 150m tape, so Glenbogle started right alongside our wee boy. Rather like a junior athlete alongside an Olympic medallist! Like me, the day I ran in an 800 metres heat against Peter Snell (led briefly, faded, last). And a standing start, too …
They all went away safely, under the whitening sun, Murray easing Fritzl slowly but surely into third place, but out of the straight on lap one, he pulled out and went to the front, and there he stayed, gradually increasing the pace and looking adorably adept.
Into the straight, and still ahead, with the others massed behind him .. well, fairystories have their limits. Glenbogle, which had doddled relaxedly round in last place decided actually to run the last couple of hundred metres and he shot past everyone else with ease. But I have this picture showing baby Fritzl – look at the difference between their physiques! -- running a genuine second behind a champion. The official result actually says he finished third, but here’s the photo (a few strides before the line admittedly). ‘Official results’ at workouts are notoriously approximate, and for me our wee boy was second.
So now it’s the races. Maybe Fritzl will have his first rising adult start on the same bill as Elena on Thursday .. thank goodness I decided to spend the month of March in New Zealand. And summer has come, too, just days off the opening of autumn..Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Gerolsteiner Babies
'
BOYS WILL BE BOYS
Rodin couldn't have drawn it better. Two year-old Mikie leads year-old D'Arcy astray....
AGNES GETS 'THE LOOK'
Thoroughly settled in now, and soon to be broken in, Agnes -- though decidedly Twiggy-elegant -- has certainly started to show up with some of the airs of her big sister. The look down the nose is starting to set in..
THE CAPTAIN GETS COMFY
Our pal the peacock is making himself very much at home, too. His favourite 'nest' now is on the verandah outside the french doors to my bedroom. And he no longer flees at human approach... just stalks loftily away. But its a bit hard to be lofty in moulting time, when your tail feathers are falling out. I am on to vase three...
BOYS WILL BE BOYS
Rodin couldn't have drawn it better. Two year-old Mikie leads year-old D'Arcy astray....
AGNES GETS 'THE LOOK'
Thoroughly settled in now, and soon to be broken in, Agnes -- though decidedly Twiggy-elegant -- has certainly started to show up with some of the airs of her big sister. The look down the nose is starting to set in..
THE CAPTAIN GETS COMFY
Our pal the peacock is making himself very much at home, too. His favourite 'nest' now is on the verandah outside the french doors to my bedroom. And he no longer flees at human approach... just stalks loftily away. But its a bit hard to be lofty in moulting time, when your tail feathers are falling out. I am on to vase three...
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Agnes de Gerolstein
I said I wouldn't do it. I swore I wouldn't do it. More horses I simply don't need and I've already bought one in France and one in Australia this year. No more horses. Even when I saw that a full sister to my beloved Elena was up on the block at this year's PGG sales, I said .. wow, I wonder who will get her.. and I wasn't going to bid. I really wasn't.
Then, when I was engaged to go to speak to the students of the Performing Arts course at Christchurch Polytech (of which more anon) about My Fabulous Life and Career. on the very day of the auction, I thought 'well that's fate. I sha'n't even go to the sale'.
But...
I watched the first day of the sales on TV, and I watched beautiful, well-bred horses being knocked down for just a few thousand dollars. Oh, heaven, imagine if someone got Agnes (well, yes I had daydreamily given her a name) for five or ten grand... imagine what regrets I'd have. And how insulting to Elena!
I sipped a scotch. I devoured half a bottle of Aussie rouge, and finally I picked up the phone and called my friend Mike. "Going to the sales?" "OK, you can bid on lot 322 up to 10K for me."
I actually got back from my lecture in time for lot 322. The bidding was slow, and it got stuck at 5K. I had been right. 5k was me. But the auctioneer decided to spend an incommensurate amount of time on Agnes and finally someone proffered six. It almost seemed as if the sale was orchestrated to get to ten (the reserve maybe?). Mike was brisk and businesslike.. at 10 the mysterious 'opposition' (I should dearly like to know who it was) disappeared and ... Agnes was mine.
Inter-Island horse transport have a vast number of babes to transport here and there on sales day, but they got to us around 10pm .. and I finally got to see the horse I had bought.
On the TV, in the ring, she looked like Elena all over again. Safely home, one can see the differences. She doesn't have the haughty eye, the snooty stare of her elder sister, she seems much less exaggerated in character (although it was exactly the haughtiness and exaggeration that made me go for Elena four years ago) and I think she's not going to be quite so huge and tall. Which would actually be good.
But 10pm was not the time to start investigating. Wendy huddled her up in a warm cover and neck rug, piled some hay into a nice big paddock ... next to Elena ... and we all went off to bed.
Naturally, first thing this morning I scurried out to look at my new girl properly. It's a typical NZ 2010 summer day, cool and drizzling, it had rained steadily through the night, making mud, puddles and soggy manes the order of the day. So I really couldn't give an exhaustive inspection to the slightly shy filly in the big blue coat. She has a nice head, a nice face .. for the rest, I shall have to wait till the sun comes out and she can strip off..
And, of course, till she recovers from what is called 'preparation' for the sales...
But she's mine. And she will, if such a thing is possible, be almost as much loved as Elena...
Welcome to Gerolstein, Agnes.
Then, when I was engaged to go to speak to the students of the Performing Arts course at Christchurch Polytech (of which more anon) about My Fabulous Life and Career. on the very day of the auction, I thought 'well that's fate. I sha'n't even go to the sale'.
But...
I watched the first day of the sales on TV, and I watched beautiful, well-bred horses being knocked down for just a few thousand dollars. Oh, heaven, imagine if someone got Agnes (well, yes I had daydreamily given her a name) for five or ten grand... imagine what regrets I'd have. And how insulting to Elena!
I sipped a scotch. I devoured half a bottle of Aussie rouge, and finally I picked up the phone and called my friend Mike. "Going to the sales?" "OK, you can bid on lot 322 up to 10K for me."
I actually got back from my lecture in time for lot 322. The bidding was slow, and it got stuck at 5K. I had been right. 5k was me. But the auctioneer decided to spend an incommensurate amount of time on Agnes and finally someone proffered six. It almost seemed as if the sale was orchestrated to get to ten (the reserve maybe?). Mike was brisk and businesslike.. at 10 the mysterious 'opposition' (I should dearly like to know who it was) disappeared and ... Agnes was mine.
Inter-Island horse transport have a vast number of babes to transport here and there on sales day, but they got to us around 10pm .. and I finally got to see the horse I had bought.
On the TV, in the ring, she looked like Elena all over again. Safely home, one can see the differences. She doesn't have the haughty eye, the snooty stare of her elder sister, she seems much less exaggerated in character (although it was exactly the haughtiness and exaggeration that made me go for Elena four years ago) and I think she's not going to be quite so huge and tall. Which would actually be good.
But 10pm was not the time to start investigating. Wendy huddled her up in a warm cover and neck rug, piled some hay into a nice big paddock ... next to Elena ... and we all went off to bed.
Naturally, first thing this morning I scurried out to look at my new girl properly. It's a typical NZ 2010 summer day, cool and drizzling, it had rained steadily through the night, making mud, puddles and soggy manes the order of the day. So I really couldn't give an exhaustive inspection to the slightly shy filly in the big blue coat. She has a nice head, a nice face .. for the rest, I shall have to wait till the sun comes out and she can strip off..
And, of course, till she recovers from what is called 'preparation' for the sales...
But she's mine. And she will, if such a thing is possible, be almost as much loved as Elena...
Welcome to Gerolstein, Agnes.
Monday, February 15, 2010
A 64th Birthday Blowjob
.
*******
I haven't taken much notice of birthdays for quite a few years (except when at sea) but for my entry into my last year as a middle-aged man it seemed a nice idea to get over that particular hurdle in company. So Wendy and I were joined by sister Jan, by Natalie and Russell Latimer, and by Erin Fox, for a merry evening with TWO cakes.. and one candle. Representing the one year left before the British Government will owe me a pension...
*******
I haven't taken much notice of birthdays for quite a few years (except when at sea) but for my entry into my last year as a middle-aged man it seemed a nice idea to get over that particular hurdle in company. So Wendy and I were joined by sister Jan, by Natalie and Russell Latimer, and by Erin Fox, for a merry evening with TWO cakes.. and one candle. Representing the one year left before the British Government will owe me a pension...
Friday, February 12, 2010
Today is summer in Sefton
.
New Zealand has decided, after several days of grey drizzle, to have its summer today...
Other folk, however, are not having even that much summer..
Kevin writes me -- with picture -- that its snowing in Berlin
And my friend Betsy sends me this, snapped an hour ago from her window in South Carolina...
It's wonderfully beautiful, but I think I'll take Gerolstein in the sunshine for the next few weeks!
New Zealand has decided, after several days of grey drizzle, to have its summer today...
Other folk, however, are not having even that much summer..
Kevin writes me -- with picture -- that its snowing in Berlin
And my friend Betsy sends me this, snapped an hour ago from her window in South Carolina...
It's wonderfully beautiful, but I think I'll take Gerolstein in the sunshine for the next few weeks!
Monday, February 1, 2010
Douchelette at three months
.
While I was in Australia, Douchelette reached the venerable age of three months... so 'baby' pictures are in order to mark the occasion. Doesn't look too babyish, does she..
While I was in Australia, Douchelette reached the venerable age of three months... so 'baby' pictures are in order to mark the occasion. Doesn't look too babyish, does she..
Friday, January 29, 2010
Menangle by night
.
I knew that dowdy, disagreeable Harold Park (see earlier post) was not the face of Australian trotting. The fact that it has been so long listed for the chop speaks for itself. But up until last night, Harold Park -- four visits in forty years -- was the only harness-race venue in this country I had ever visited.
Not any more.
Last night, Barry and I hoofed it seventy kilometres up the Hume Highway from Lane Cove into the almost-country and to Menangle Park Raceway (recte: Paceway .. what about the trotters?) .
The Paceway is, so a kind gentleman guarding some of the private precincts told me, a work in progress. Although it has been open getting on for a year, they are still developing it. Well, all I can say is, what they have done already is delightful, delicious and dazzling. When it’s done, Menangle could easily be my favourite harness venue, all countries and courses put together. Though I recognise that they still have work to do.
It was evident from the moment that we drove in at the cheerily-manned gate (gold stars for the vehicle marshallers) that this was another bowl of cherries to the grim, saucery emptiness of the city venue. The course was thronged with lively racegoers, obviously all having a wow of a time. I could have been back at Rangiora or Nelson at Christmas time, except for the fact that it was night. More than that, it was an occasion: the new-style Menangle’s first meeting under lights. And I may say right away, splendid lights both in the public areas and on the track.
The most important part of any racetrack is, of course, the piste itself, and this one is a stunner. To look at, anyway. I can’t speak for driving on, though I’d give my left pinkie to get out my retired amateur driver's gear and have a try. It’s about 1500 metres round, immaculate in its grey-beige grit, with perfect sightlines, set in agreeable countryside and ... well, the horses evidently like it too. One medium-class ex-Kiwi horse ran a 25.8 first quarter, the main race (1 mile) was won in 1.53.0, and a 1-2 wins race in a time just fractions slower. If this is where the formerly ridiculously-named ‘Miracle Mile’ (draw one, lead, stay there, yawn) is now to be run, then the race will be at last able to live up to its name.
The public buildings are simple-looking and apparently effective. I say apparently, because I didn’t get to go inside. Building one, the main stand, is a bar and lounge for members and sponsors. Building two is a dining room … for members and sponsors. The dashing marquee alongside these stands is for committee, celebrities and dignitaries. And the second marquee seems to share the same fate.
And the hoi polloi … such as I for this occasion was ... where do we go? There’s one open stand, after the line, there are a few rows of bleachers in front of stand number one, and a very nice little lawn down to the rails. But food and drink – and shelter from the showers we got -- are underground. Who wants to be underground at a race meeting? No complaints about the catering, though. There was excellent ‘race-course’ tucker, a choice of three beers (including a wise light) and the liquid refreshment was a whole dollar cheaper than at Horrible Park.
Gentlemen of Menangle! Priority one in the next phase of development – even though you are, of course, already ten km ahead of the HP course -- is to provide something a bit nicer for the non-dignified, non-sponsorising non-membership. I mean, that’s how we attract new people to harness racing, isn’t it?
Complaints? I have to think hard. They need to repaint the sign advertising SOUVENIRES. The Garrards shop (one charming lass) is far too small and situated in the unvisitable (to me, alas) owners and trainers only area. I had to ask permission from another friendly official to be able to go and spend my money. $10 to get in and $3 a racebook is tough after New Zealand freebies. And Barry, who usually bets with the bookies said that the handful of them there (including my mate from HP, he works hard!) offered awful odds and he spent the evening betting on the tote. But, otherwise… they have got it all so amazingly right. Menangle is glowing evidence in favour of getting racetracks out of city centres and into agreeable and open-skied venues where harness racing can once again be a spectator sport for all, and not just ‘an industry’ and a dreary piece of TAB-fodder. I look forward with anticipation to a visit to Melton, Menangle’s Victorian equivalent in September.
I’ve talked so much about the place, I haven’t paid any attention to the horses. Sadly, we were too late for the first, a trot with a field made up almost entirely of mostly re-named (why this continuing insult?) ex-Kiwis including old pal Chew the Fat, and we arrived only for the third, a one-to-two-metropolitan-wins race. It was a stunner! They cut out the first quarter in 26 and something, completed their mile in 1.53.6, and the performance of the all-the-way winner, a Cam’s Card Shark horse named Genuwine was little short of staggering. Although an aspiring-to-the-Interdoms American import, Lonestar Legend, took out the principal race six-tenths faster (after runner-up Cullen’s Legacy’s lightning first quarter), for me Genuwine was the star of the evening. Cam’s Card Shark, begorrah!
I snapped Genuwine during the race, but they were going so fast I just got blurs, so I snapped him again in what passes for a winner’s circle. I’m sure it is only temporary. I hope it is.
(Postscript: I discover Genuwine is also a US import with a huge record, huge winnings and a prospective stud career in Australia. So my ‘discovery’ isn’t one!)
Thank you Menangle, for a very nice night. The rain didn’t matter at all … but next time I’m coming I think I might call in advance and let you know -- especially if it's wet -- that I am accounted by some a very small ‘celebrity’…
I knew that dowdy, disagreeable Harold Park (see earlier post) was not the face of Australian trotting. The fact that it has been so long listed for the chop speaks for itself. But up until last night, Harold Park -- four visits in forty years -- was the only harness-race venue in this country I had ever visited.
Not any more.
Last night, Barry and I hoofed it seventy kilometres up the Hume Highway from Lane Cove into the almost-country and to Menangle Park Raceway (recte: Paceway .. what about the trotters?) .
The Paceway is, so a kind gentleman guarding some of the private precincts told me, a work in progress. Although it has been open getting on for a year, they are still developing it. Well, all I can say is, what they have done already is delightful, delicious and dazzling. When it’s done, Menangle could easily be my favourite harness venue, all countries and courses put together. Though I recognise that they still have work to do.
It was evident from the moment that we drove in at the cheerily-manned gate (gold stars for the vehicle marshallers) that this was another bowl of cherries to the grim, saucery emptiness of the city venue. The course was thronged with lively racegoers, obviously all having a wow of a time. I could have been back at Rangiora or Nelson at Christmas time, except for the fact that it was night. More than that, it was an occasion: the new-style Menangle’s first meeting under lights. And I may say right away, splendid lights both in the public areas and on the track.
The most important part of any racetrack is, of course, the piste itself, and this one is a stunner. To look at, anyway. I can’t speak for driving on, though I’d give my left pinkie to get out my retired amateur driver's gear and have a try. It’s about 1500 metres round, immaculate in its grey-beige grit, with perfect sightlines, set in agreeable countryside and ... well, the horses evidently like it too. One medium-class ex-Kiwi horse ran a 25.8 first quarter, the main race (1 mile) was won in 1.53.0, and a 1-2 wins race in a time just fractions slower. If this is where the formerly ridiculously-named ‘Miracle Mile’ (draw one, lead, stay there, yawn) is now to be run, then the race will be at last able to live up to its name.
The public buildings are simple-looking and apparently effective. I say apparently, because I didn’t get to go inside. Building one, the main stand, is a bar and lounge for members and sponsors. Building two is a dining room … for members and sponsors. The dashing marquee alongside these stands is for committee, celebrities and dignitaries. And the second marquee seems to share the same fate.
And the hoi polloi … such as I for this occasion was ... where do we go? There’s one open stand, after the line, there are a few rows of bleachers in front of stand number one, and a very nice little lawn down to the rails. But food and drink – and shelter from the showers we got -- are underground. Who wants to be underground at a race meeting? No complaints about the catering, though. There was excellent ‘race-course’ tucker, a choice of three beers (including a wise light) and the liquid refreshment was a whole dollar cheaper than at Horrible Park.
Gentlemen of Menangle! Priority one in the next phase of development – even though you are, of course, already ten km ahead of the HP course -- is to provide something a bit nicer for the non-dignified, non-sponsorising non-membership. I mean, that’s how we attract new people to harness racing, isn’t it?
Complaints? I have to think hard. They need to repaint the sign advertising SOUVENIRES. The Garrards shop (one charming lass) is far too small and situated in the unvisitable (to me, alas) owners and trainers only area. I had to ask permission from another friendly official to be able to go and spend my money. $10 to get in and $3 a racebook is tough after New Zealand freebies. And Barry, who usually bets with the bookies said that the handful of them there (including my mate from HP, he works hard!) offered awful odds and he spent the evening betting on the tote. But, otherwise… they have got it all so amazingly right. Menangle is glowing evidence in favour of getting racetracks out of city centres and into agreeable and open-skied venues where harness racing can once again be a spectator sport for all, and not just ‘an industry’ and a dreary piece of TAB-fodder. I look forward with anticipation to a visit to Melton, Menangle’s Victorian equivalent in September.
I’ve talked so much about the place, I haven’t paid any attention to the horses. Sadly, we were too late for the first, a trot with a field made up almost entirely of mostly re-named (why this continuing insult?) ex-Kiwis including old pal Chew the Fat, and we arrived only for the third, a one-to-two-metropolitan-wins race. It was a stunner! They cut out the first quarter in 26 and something, completed their mile in 1.53.6, and the performance of the all-the-way winner, a Cam’s Card Shark horse named Genuwine was little short of staggering. Although an aspiring-to-the-Interdoms American import, Lonestar Legend, took out the principal race six-tenths faster (after runner-up Cullen’s Legacy’s lightning first quarter), for me Genuwine was the star of the evening. Cam’s Card Shark, begorrah!
I snapped Genuwine during the race, but they were going so fast I just got blurs, so I snapped him again in what passes for a winner’s circle. I’m sure it is only temporary. I hope it is.
(Postscript: I discover Genuwine is also a US import with a huge record, huge winnings and a prospective stud career in Australia. So my ‘discovery’ isn’t one!)
Thank you Menangle, for a very nice night. The rain didn’t matter at all … but next time I’m coming I think I might call in advance and let you know -- especially if it's wet -- that I am accounted by some a very small ‘celebrity’…
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
When it reins it paws!
Elena’s outing to Addington wasn’t the only Gerolstein horsey event that my globe-trotting caused me to miss this week.
After Seppl’s fine first workout at Motukarara last week, Murray decided to give him one more like run, and then take him straight to the qualifying trials. I checked the schedules: splendid, that would be 3 February and I’d be back in Canterbury!
But things moved even more quickly than could have been imagined, and the day after Lena’s victory, little Seppl and his better-known nephew Fritzl (‘The Soldier Fritz’), headed for Ashburton and the week’s Qualifying Trials. Seppl’s mission was to crack the qualifying time, Fritzl was there for Murray to get a handle on the stage of his preparation: for we are only a fortnight away from the first three year-old classic of the year, and on last term’s form, Fritzl could be there.
Seppl lined up with six other young rising trotters, and when the tapes flew he stepped away just as faultlessly and fast as his mother, Gwen, used to do in her youth. Apparently there was a bit of carnage behind him, but Seppl didn’t even see it: as he did last week, he just trotted straight to the front, ran them along for a mile and a half, and none of the others got near him! He even ran home his last quarters in 58 and 28, times worthy of a pacer.
So my next glimpse of Seppl, when I pass through New Zealand, will now be at the real races rather than a trial.
Fritzl lined up against two star three year-old fillies, and he more than accomplished his mission. Although the winner, a race-winner the other day against older horses, finished 10 lengths ahead of him, they cut out their mile in a neat 2.04 .. not a bad effort for a first pipe-opener of the season!
Hopefully, I’ll be having a fun time with Gerolstein's horses in February and March, before I quit New Zealand to return to Europe!
Race 2 QUALIFYING TROT. (Time Required - 3-20.0 )
Distance: 2400m Weather: Fine Track: Fast
1 11 SEPPL 6 Ft 3-15.8 M Edmonds M P Edmonds
2 12 Seeker Dhu U1 Ft 3-16.3 B Weaver B Weaver
3 6 CR Ash 1 Ft 3-16.4 J B Geddes J J & J B Geddes
4 8 Sole Recruit 3 Ft 3-21.1 K D Townley K D Townley
Other Starters in finishing order
5 9 Gee Itsa Boy 4 Ft D McCormick D G McCormick
6 10 DixieCommando 5 Ft J J Geddes J J & J B Geddes
7 7 A Saint She Aint 2 Ft C A Butt T G Butt
Margins: 3 lengths, nose, 23 lengths
Sectional Times: Mile Rate: 2-11.2 Last 800m: 58.7 Last 400m: 28.3
Qualifier:
Seppl 2006 3 Br g Wrestle-Gwen
Trainer: Murray Edmonds
Owner: K F Ganzl, B D Collins
After Seppl’s fine first workout at Motukarara last week, Murray decided to give him one more like run, and then take him straight to the qualifying trials. I checked the schedules: splendid, that would be 3 February and I’d be back in Canterbury!
But things moved even more quickly than could have been imagined, and the day after Lena’s victory, little Seppl and his better-known nephew Fritzl (‘The Soldier Fritz’), headed for Ashburton and the week’s Qualifying Trials. Seppl’s mission was to crack the qualifying time, Fritzl was there for Murray to get a handle on the stage of his preparation: for we are only a fortnight away from the first three year-old classic of the year, and on last term’s form, Fritzl could be there.
Seppl lined up with six other young rising trotters, and when the tapes flew he stepped away just as faultlessly and fast as his mother, Gwen, used to do in her youth. Apparently there was a bit of carnage behind him, but Seppl didn’t even see it: as he did last week, he just trotted straight to the front, ran them along for a mile and a half, and none of the others got near him! He even ran home his last quarters in 58 and 28, times worthy of a pacer.
So my next glimpse of Seppl, when I pass through New Zealand, will now be at the real races rather than a trial.
Fritzl lined up against two star three year-old fillies, and he more than accomplished his mission. Although the winner, a race-winner the other day against older horses, finished 10 lengths ahead of him, they cut out their mile in a neat 2.04 .. not a bad effort for a first pipe-opener of the season!
Hopefully, I’ll be having a fun time with Gerolstein's horses in February and March, before I quit New Zealand to return to Europe!
Race 2 QUALIFYING TROT. (Time Required - 3-20.0 )
Distance: 2400m Weather: Fine Track: Fast
1 11 SEPPL 6 Ft 3-15.8 M Edmonds M P Edmonds
2 12 Seeker Dhu U1 Ft 3-16.3 B Weaver B Weaver
3 6 CR Ash 1 Ft 3-16.4 J B Geddes J J & J B Geddes
4 8 Sole Recruit 3 Ft 3-21.1 K D Townley K D Townley
Other Starters in finishing order
5 9 Gee Itsa Boy 4 Ft D McCormick D G McCormick
6 10 DixieCommando 5 Ft J J Geddes J J & J B Geddes
7 7 A Saint She Aint 2 Ft C A Butt T G Butt
Margins: 3 lengths, nose, 23 lengths
Sectional Times: Mile Rate: 2-11.2 Last 800m: 58.7 Last 400m: 28.3
Qualifier:
Seppl 2006 3 Br g Wrestle-Gwen
Trainer: Murray Edmonds
Owner: K F Ganzl, B D Collins
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Australia Day and ... Elena Wins!!!
.
There’s an old adage, much subscribed to by my friend Jack, which says ‘they only win when you aren’t there’. The horses that is. So when I decided to pop over to Sydney for my first visit to Barry and Rosie in their new home, I said to Wendy, ‘Just carry on’, and pointed to what seemed the only possible race for her, in an HRNZ January-February schedule annoyingly de-Canterburyised: Tuesday 25th.
Tuesday meetings are meant to be for a lesser class of horse (though it doesn’t always turn out that way! The Purdon, Butt and M Jones colours are often seen out Tuesdaying) and the field that Elena drew was – given a couple of imponderable first starters – not bristling with form. I was fairly .. nay, rather daringly too .. confident, in spite of the presence in the field of a professional runner-up named Music Box Dancer. And the wizard of Trottech tipsterland labelled her a virtual cert. The Australian tipsters put her fourth: but they didn’t know what we knew, that we’d sussed the little (large) problem that had caused the Oamaru debacle, and moved to correct it.
Tuesday racing was invented to fill a gap on the Australian gambling channels. A very happy invention for all concerned. But this meant I could be sure of seeing my girl’s race, if not in person, at least on trans-Tasman TV. The TV in question turned out to be the largest I have ever seen.
Tuesday was Australia Day. I don’t know why the world needs these jingoistic fetes, but there you are. It was Australia Day and folk were feting. We were invited to do that feting in megastyle, at the stunning Vaucluse home of Barry’s clients and friends, Richard and Lilli Kaljo. On arrival, I shyly inquired of Richard whether I might watch my race … well, how was I to know that he has been the owner of a Doomben Cup winner and umpteen other top class horses, and is a rabid racing man! As was, it seemed, everyone else in the room!
On went the TV, round went the buzz .. and I’m sure the reason that Lena dropped from $6.60 to win to $4.10 to win was because of the telephone betting activity that came out of the Kaljo living room.
The race did not start well. Elena did her usual ‘I hate anything in front of me’ act, turning her head away from the gate in the run-up to the start, and – after Oamaru – John was not hustling her. So she made a poor start, as the rank outsider zoomed to the front and set off at a good pace. But John didn’t seem worried: in fact he seemed to be just dollying unconcernedly along near the back of the bunch, until he pulled three wide and let Lena run up to the leader with about 600 metres to go. The leader promptly threw up a very white flag and vanished backwards down the rails, carting his followers with him, and Lena found herself in front almost by default. Round the home turn she cruised – John sitting quietly, as the only likely challenger loomed up on his right elbow. The commentator promptly started calling the other horse the winner – an unfortunate foresightly habit of commentators – but John and Elena had a full tank, and John had only to brush the accelerator for our girl to take charge of the situation, and glide pass the post sufficiently and wholly comfortably ahead.
She came back with not a hair out of place.
Up in the Kaljo palazzo, Lena and I were the hero/ines of the hour, and my Australia Day’s resolution to drink just a little light beer went, of course, plum out the window as we fiddled with mobile phones trying to get through a call to Wendy in the birdcage..
Such excitement for a Tuesday maiden at Addington? … oh, yes. This win is a wonderful one in my book. First of all, it’s a win gained out of all sorts of adversity -- remember the steel pins in Lena’s throat? -- secondly, it’s the first win for Wendy and I as a team, and for Wendy her first win in her first season as a solo public trainer, And it may be the thirtieth victory that a horse I have owned or part-owned has notched up in my time as a horseman .. but it’s the first one ever (after the placings of Davey Crockett, Master Ado, Smart Don and Il Campione) on the headquarters track of the NZ Metropolitan Trotting Club at Addington.
It will be a long time before I forget Australia Day 2010. And thank you Richard and Lilli, Robert and Sandra, Michael, Joel and all the gathered company: I couldn’t have had my longed-for win in more convivial and friendly company…
But next time, damn the adage, I am going to be there.
There’s an old adage, much subscribed to by my friend Jack, which says ‘they only win when you aren’t there’. The horses that is. So when I decided to pop over to Sydney for my first visit to Barry and Rosie in their new home, I said to Wendy, ‘Just carry on’, and pointed to what seemed the only possible race for her, in an HRNZ January-February schedule annoyingly de-Canterburyised: Tuesday 25th.
Tuesday meetings are meant to be for a lesser class of horse (though it doesn’t always turn out that way! The Purdon, Butt and M Jones colours are often seen out Tuesdaying) and the field that Elena drew was – given a couple of imponderable first starters – not bristling with form. I was fairly .. nay, rather daringly too .. confident, in spite of the presence in the field of a professional runner-up named Music Box Dancer. And the wizard of Trottech tipsterland labelled her a virtual cert. The Australian tipsters put her fourth: but they didn’t know what we knew, that we’d sussed the little (large) problem that had caused the Oamaru debacle, and moved to correct it.
Tuesday racing was invented to fill a gap on the Australian gambling channels. A very happy invention for all concerned. But this meant I could be sure of seeing my girl’s race, if not in person, at least on trans-Tasman TV. The TV in question turned out to be the largest I have ever seen.
Tuesday was Australia Day. I don’t know why the world needs these jingoistic fetes, but there you are. It was Australia Day and folk were feting. We were invited to do that feting in megastyle, at the stunning Vaucluse home of Barry’s clients and friends, Richard and Lilli Kaljo. On arrival, I shyly inquired of Richard whether I might watch my race … well, how was I to know that he has been the owner of a Doomben Cup winner and umpteen other top class horses, and is a rabid racing man! As was, it seemed, everyone else in the room!
On went the TV, round went the buzz .. and I’m sure the reason that Lena dropped from $6.60 to win to $4.10 to win was because of the telephone betting activity that came out of the Kaljo living room.
The race did not start well. Elena did her usual ‘I hate anything in front of me’ act, turning her head away from the gate in the run-up to the start, and – after Oamaru – John was not hustling her. So she made a poor start, as the rank outsider zoomed to the front and set off at a good pace. But John didn’t seem worried: in fact he seemed to be just dollying unconcernedly along near the back of the bunch, until he pulled three wide and let Lena run up to the leader with about 600 metres to go. The leader promptly threw up a very white flag and vanished backwards down the rails, carting his followers with him, and Lena found herself in front almost by default. Round the home turn she cruised – John sitting quietly, as the only likely challenger loomed up on his right elbow. The commentator promptly started calling the other horse the winner – an unfortunate foresightly habit of commentators – but John and Elena had a full tank, and John had only to brush the accelerator for our girl to take charge of the situation, and glide pass the post sufficiently and wholly comfortably ahead.
She came back with not a hair out of place.
Up in the Kaljo palazzo, Lena and I were the hero/ines of the hour, and my Australia Day’s resolution to drink just a little light beer went, of course, plum out the window as we fiddled with mobile phones trying to get through a call to Wendy in the birdcage..
Such excitement for a Tuesday maiden at Addington? … oh, yes. This win is a wonderful one in my book. First of all, it’s a win gained out of all sorts of adversity -- remember the steel pins in Lena’s throat? -- secondly, it’s the first win for Wendy and I as a team, and for Wendy her first win in her first season as a solo public trainer, And it may be the thirtieth victory that a horse I have owned or part-owned has notched up in my time as a horseman .. but it’s the first one ever (after the placings of Davey Crockett, Master Ado, Smart Don and Il Campione) on the headquarters track of the NZ Metropolitan Trotting Club at Addington.
It will be a long time before I forget Australia Day 2010. And thank you Richard and Lilli, Robert and Sandra, Michael, Joel and all the gathered company: I couldn’t have had my longed-for win in more convivial and friendly company…
But next time, damn the adage, I am going to be there.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Australia: week one
.
Event of the week: I got to catch up with Antonette and Daniel. Antonette is Barry and Rosemary’s daughter whom I have known since she was a thought, an egg, a tiny swaddled pixie in a cloth carrying-cot on my couch at Bruton Street, London W1, a gawky freckled dance student … and whose godfather I ought to have been. Foolishly, the Catholic Church, thinking only of retaining dominion over a child’s religious allegiance, and ignoring things like love and inheritance, disqualified me on grounds of race and (lack of) religion, so I am only a godfather at heart.
Antonette is now – three decades on -- grown into a beautiful young woman, with a fine career in Australian broadcasting and last year – when I, alas, was on the high seas somewhere between Vanuatu and the Solomons -- she became Mrs Daniel Johnston.
Daniel works in my sphere, as a dramatic pedagogue, and yesterday we discovered ourselves quoted in one and the same theatre magazine. So you might say we are on the same wavelength.
Saturday night, the family and a dozen friends, old and young, gathered for an Aussie BBQ here at Lane Cove, and even though the heat-wave burst in a flurry of rain early in the evening, a really lovely time was had by all. Notably me. And I snapped a slightly fuzzy photo of the Collins family…
Sunday, we visited Daniel and Antonette in their apartment in the charming coastal suburb of Clovelly for morning coffee, and then we headed for Randwick. Yes, Randwick as in horse racing. For it was the day of the Inglis Classic Yearling Sales. These sales mean a lot to us, for from them came our Rosmarino – the winner of some $200,000 in stakes for us, and now the mother of our equine children. The latest of those children will come up for sale here in April (I shall be on the spot!) when, hopefully, he will make Barry, Ivano, Gerald, Les, Brian and I enough Aussie dollars to keep us in golf-balls (them) and horseshoes (me) for the rest of our lives.
The Randwick sales complex is agreeable. More so than its New Zealand equivalent, where I bought Elena four years ago. Firstly, it is effectively open-air rather than deeply tented, but what I liked most is the way it is run. The auctioneers (well, two of the three) were immeasurably better than their Kiwi equivalents: no campy joking with named friends in the audience, no ‘look-at-me-will-you-put me on Celebrity Squares’ performances, no endless, bawled bla-bla, just efficient and almost comprehensible calling of the bids (will someone teach these guys microphone technique!) and wrapping up of sales. They make you want to bid, whereas the Kiwi jokers always seem to be rooting for their mates alongside the podium.
The sale prices were surprisingly modest -- $10,000-$60,000 -- during the couple of hours we watched (I am told it was a day for modestly pretentious horses), but one chestnut filly by Snitzel out of Innocense caught fire and made it up to $130,000. Maybe this was because a daughter of the hitherto not exactly fashionable Snitzel had put up a showy display at the races the previous day. Or maybe someone knows better than I what to look for in a thoroughbred horse. I shall watch with interest the future of this young lass. (PS: the top-seller of the day went for $250,000).
Today was a day for a little shopping, a lot of lazing, and the tennis and the races on the TV.
Now, I normally don’t watch TV except for the harness racing. But today I did some tennis, and also suffered a number of news bulletins. And in both cases .., well, I’m very worried about Australia. I know tomorrow is so-called ‘Australia Day’, but I was shocked by the pathological over-the-top ‘nationalism’ shoved out of the box and down my throat every five minutes. Ozzie this, Ozzie that ... surely only the most insecure folk feel the need to be so desperately and bawlingly ‘assertive’? A pathetically ludicrous (and carefully publicised) group of painted loonies who pretended an interest in tennis were bad enough, but the bloke who is so scared of the past that he wants to remake the national flag was undoubtedly the saddest. I can’t believe it! Australia which, when it had a government with a brain, looked as if it could do anything and go anywhere in the world .. reduced to ‘Ozzie Ozzie Ozzie’, yellow face paint, and attempts at revisionist history .. it’s pure jingoism and nothing short of … well, sad.
Hopefully, Australia Day will bring more youth, more joy, more hope, more uncringing positiveness… and less mindless yelling.
Stop Press. I forgot the horses!
A grand horsey day here on the left hand side of the Tasman. ‘George’ who ran so encouragingly at Harold Park went out again today, already, at Menangle … and he won! And at the same time, down in Victoria, Elena’s brother (and Livia’s uncle) ‘Eton Bromac’ did exactly the same! One gold star for our Sally! Her progeny now have 30 wins. And a sort of one for Elena… who tomorrow goes to the racetrack herself. Fingers crossed.
Event of the week: I got to catch up with Antonette and Daniel. Antonette is Barry and Rosemary’s daughter whom I have known since she was a thought, an egg, a tiny swaddled pixie in a cloth carrying-cot on my couch at Bruton Street, London W1, a gawky freckled dance student … and whose godfather I ought to have been. Foolishly, the Catholic Church, thinking only of retaining dominion over a child’s religious allegiance, and ignoring things like love and inheritance, disqualified me on grounds of race and (lack of) religion, so I am only a godfather at heart.
Antonette is now – three decades on -- grown into a beautiful young woman, with a fine career in Australian broadcasting and last year – when I, alas, was on the high seas somewhere between Vanuatu and the Solomons -- she became Mrs Daniel Johnston.
Daniel works in my sphere, as a dramatic pedagogue, and yesterday we discovered ourselves quoted in one and the same theatre magazine. So you might say we are on the same wavelength.
Saturday night, the family and a dozen friends, old and young, gathered for an Aussie BBQ here at Lane Cove, and even though the heat-wave burst in a flurry of rain early in the evening, a really lovely time was had by all. Notably me. And I snapped a slightly fuzzy photo of the Collins family…
Sunday, we visited Daniel and Antonette in their apartment in the charming coastal suburb of Clovelly for morning coffee, and then we headed for Randwick. Yes, Randwick as in horse racing. For it was the day of the Inglis Classic Yearling Sales. These sales mean a lot to us, for from them came our Rosmarino – the winner of some $200,000 in stakes for us, and now the mother of our equine children. The latest of those children will come up for sale here in April (I shall be on the spot!) when, hopefully, he will make Barry, Ivano, Gerald, Les, Brian and I enough Aussie dollars to keep us in golf-balls (them) and horseshoes (me) for the rest of our lives.
The Randwick sales complex is agreeable. More so than its New Zealand equivalent, where I bought Elena four years ago. Firstly, it is effectively open-air rather than deeply tented, but what I liked most is the way it is run. The auctioneers (well, two of the three) were immeasurably better than their Kiwi equivalents: no campy joking with named friends in the audience, no ‘look-at-me-will-you-put me on Celebrity Squares’ performances, no endless, bawled bla-bla, just efficient and almost comprehensible calling of the bids (will someone teach these guys microphone technique!) and wrapping up of sales. They make you want to bid, whereas the Kiwi jokers always seem to be rooting for their mates alongside the podium.
The sale prices were surprisingly modest -- $10,000-$60,000 -- during the couple of hours we watched (I am told it was a day for modestly pretentious horses), but one chestnut filly by Snitzel out of Innocense caught fire and made it up to $130,000. Maybe this was because a daughter of the hitherto not exactly fashionable Snitzel had put up a showy display at the races the previous day. Or maybe someone knows better than I what to look for in a thoroughbred horse. I shall watch with interest the future of this young lass. (PS: the top-seller of the day went for $250,000).
Today was a day for a little shopping, a lot of lazing, and the tennis and the races on the TV.
Now, I normally don’t watch TV except for the harness racing. But today I did some tennis, and also suffered a number of news bulletins. And in both cases .., well, I’m very worried about Australia. I know tomorrow is so-called ‘Australia Day’, but I was shocked by the pathological over-the-top ‘nationalism’ shoved out of the box and down my throat every five minutes. Ozzie this, Ozzie that ... surely only the most insecure folk feel the need to be so desperately and bawlingly ‘assertive’? A pathetically ludicrous (and carefully publicised) group of painted loonies who pretended an interest in tennis were bad enough, but the bloke who is so scared of the past that he wants to remake the national flag was undoubtedly the saddest. I can’t believe it! Australia which, when it had a government with a brain, looked as if it could do anything and go anywhere in the world .. reduced to ‘Ozzie Ozzie Ozzie’, yellow face paint, and attempts at revisionist history .. it’s pure jingoism and nothing short of … well, sad.
Hopefully, Australia Day will bring more youth, more joy, more hope, more uncringing positiveness… and less mindless yelling.
Stop Press. I forgot the horses!
A grand horsey day here on the left hand side of the Tasman. ‘George’ who ran so encouragingly at Harold Park went out again today, already, at Menangle … and he won! And at the same time, down in Victoria, Elena’s brother (and Livia’s uncle) ‘Eton Bromac’ did exactly the same! One gold star for our Sally! Her progeny now have 30 wins. And a sort of one for Elena… who tomorrow goes to the racetrack herself. Fingers crossed.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Sydney 2010
.
I’d forgotten how long it had been since I had been to Australia for more than just a quick change of planes on my way to somewhere else. I found out yesterday when I tried to use my local bank card ... and discovered that it was a whole year out of date!
In fact it’s more than two years since my last visit, and in those two years a few things have changed. First and foremost, Barry and Rosie (whom frequenters of this blog will know well, and who have been my very dear friends for nearly 40 years) have moved house. From the likeable Italian suburb of Leichhardt, to lovely Lane Cove, in the northern outskirts of the city. It’s another world. Here, we sit on a wide open terrace, glass and fork in hand, gazing over the green Australian bush, alive with the hoarse croaks of the kookaburra and the buzz of the Aussie mozzie, and pleasantly far from the howl of aeroplane engines. Delicious!
Australia in this January of 2010 is – there is no other word for it – Hot with a capital H. The TV has just told me that it was 41 degrees yesterday, the car thermometer clocked 49 after sitting in the sun … such temperatures I’ve never experienced and I had no real idea how to cope.
My first day here, I accompanied Barry and Ivano (above) to Rose Bay golf course for a gentle round (them) of nine holes, and a gentle green walk (me) in the sun. Many is the time I’ve looked over the fence at Rose Bay golf links (for Rose Bay is where Ian’s mother lived her last years), so it was fun to stroll around inside the fence. You only get to stroll, for the course is largely used, it seems, by late middle-aged ladies whose average stroke runs 20 metres and whose airshot tally is momentous, and very tall young men with lots of length and minimal accuracy. I wonder if the ball with the red ‘H’ on it was ever found by its rightful owner…
But I didn’t realise how hot it would be on the hatless parts of me that no longer have much hair! A couple of middys of Toohey’s Old Dark (very nice) were required at Hole Ten to lower my cranial temperature!
Day two, some gentle Lane Cove downtime (with a little shopping, notably at a first-class food-n-flowers emporium named Thomas Dux), and day three – what else – off to the races. Now, last time I was here, Barry and I went trotting at Sydney’s Harold Park. We left after a few races, I declaring it was the most horrid hippodrome I had ever been on, anywhere in the world, in my many years of racehorse-owning and horse-race-going. I never thought that I would return and, in fact, I was under the pleasant illusion that the venue had been bulldozed, in favour of wide-open Menangle (which I have yet to try). But it hasn’t. It’s still there, and horses still squeeze their way around it to an audience of a few hundred uncomfortable punters … but .. The ‘but’ was that last night’s programme included two horses very dear to Wendy and I. ‘Ty’ (Typhoon Anvil) who spent his growing and early racing years with us, and ‘George’ (General George), the second son of Gerolstein’s resident pacing broodmare, ‘Sally’, both of whom are now racing in Australia. So we went.
Harold Park is as depressing as ever. Gloomy corridors, and ‘prison’ staircases, stained utilitarian carpets, windows so filthy you can’t see through them, a choice of two beers served at $4.50 in a plastic cup and not even a sandwich in sight. Maybe the ‘members only’ and ‘club’ areas are better (‘visitors, stay away!’) ... I sha’n’t, doubtless, be finding out. The surly girls in Garrards made me think longingly of the lively lasses at Addington, and … well, at least the one and only bookmaker was cheerful enough, if barely patronised. The place just oozed moribundity.
On the slim credit side of the leger, the racing-round-a-saucer was somewhat better than it had been last time, and I was kept buoyant by the fact the both our babes put on a show.
Ty – at long odds – was left in front when the favourite galloped, and he led the field up to the straight entrance (it must be the first time ever in his life he has led!) before being run down for 5th.
In the last race of the night, George—at even longer odds – starting from ten, followed a running line that couldn’t run, a three-wide line that couldn’t go forward, was second-last on the turn, and flashed home for a splendid fourth.
So the evening was rescued from shabby horror, and I was able to head back to Lane Cove, in the slightly cooling night, looking forward to a soontime visit to Menangle (or anywhere) and a more agreeable view of Australian harness racing.
I’d forgotten how long it had been since I had been to Australia for more than just a quick change of planes on my way to somewhere else. I found out yesterday when I tried to use my local bank card ... and discovered that it was a whole year out of date!
In fact it’s more than two years since my last visit, and in those two years a few things have changed. First and foremost, Barry and Rosie (whom frequenters of this blog will know well, and who have been my very dear friends for nearly 40 years) have moved house. From the likeable Italian suburb of Leichhardt, to lovely Lane Cove, in the northern outskirts of the city. It’s another world. Here, we sit on a wide open terrace, glass and fork in hand, gazing over the green Australian bush, alive with the hoarse croaks of the kookaburra and the buzz of the Aussie mozzie, and pleasantly far from the howl of aeroplane engines. Delicious!
Australia in this January of 2010 is – there is no other word for it – Hot with a capital H. The TV has just told me that it was 41 degrees yesterday, the car thermometer clocked 49 after sitting in the sun … such temperatures I’ve never experienced and I had no real idea how to cope.
My first day here, I accompanied Barry and Ivano (above) to Rose Bay golf course for a gentle round (them) of nine holes, and a gentle green walk (me) in the sun. Many is the time I’ve looked over the fence at Rose Bay golf links (for Rose Bay is where Ian’s mother lived her last years), so it was fun to stroll around inside the fence. You only get to stroll, for the course is largely used, it seems, by late middle-aged ladies whose average stroke runs 20 metres and whose airshot tally is momentous, and very tall young men with lots of length and minimal accuracy. I wonder if the ball with the red ‘H’ on it was ever found by its rightful owner…
But I didn’t realise how hot it would be on the hatless parts of me that no longer have much hair! A couple of middys of Toohey’s Old Dark (very nice) were required at Hole Ten to lower my cranial temperature!
Day two, some gentle Lane Cove downtime (with a little shopping, notably at a first-class food-n-flowers emporium named Thomas Dux), and day three – what else – off to the races. Now, last time I was here, Barry and I went trotting at Sydney’s Harold Park. We left after a few races, I declaring it was the most horrid hippodrome I had ever been on, anywhere in the world, in my many years of racehorse-owning and horse-race-going. I never thought that I would return and, in fact, I was under the pleasant illusion that the venue had been bulldozed, in favour of wide-open Menangle (which I have yet to try). But it hasn’t. It’s still there, and horses still squeeze their way around it to an audience of a few hundred uncomfortable punters … but .. The ‘but’ was that last night’s programme included two horses very dear to Wendy and I. ‘Ty’ (Typhoon Anvil) who spent his growing and early racing years with us, and ‘George’ (General George), the second son of Gerolstein’s resident pacing broodmare, ‘Sally’, both of whom are now racing in Australia. So we went.
Harold Park is as depressing as ever. Gloomy corridors, and ‘prison’ staircases, stained utilitarian carpets, windows so filthy you can’t see through them, a choice of two beers served at $4.50 in a plastic cup and not even a sandwich in sight. Maybe the ‘members only’ and ‘club’ areas are better (‘visitors, stay away!’) ... I sha’n’t, doubtless, be finding out. The surly girls in Garrards made me think longingly of the lively lasses at Addington, and … well, at least the one and only bookmaker was cheerful enough, if barely patronised. The place just oozed moribundity.
On the slim credit side of the leger, the racing-round-a-saucer was somewhat better than it had been last time, and I was kept buoyant by the fact the both our babes put on a show.
Ty – at long odds – was left in front when the favourite galloped, and he led the field up to the straight entrance (it must be the first time ever in his life he has led!) before being run down for 5th.
In the last race of the night, George—at even longer odds – starting from ten, followed a running line that couldn’t run, a three-wide line that couldn’t go forward, was second-last on the turn, and flashed home for a splendid fourth.
So the evening was rescued from shabby horror, and I was able to head back to Lane Cove, in the slightly cooling night, looking forward to a soontime visit to Menangle (or anywhere) and a more agreeable view of Australian harness racing.
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