Quite a busy week with business in London, plus a drinks party, an-almost-dinner-with-Sajid-Javid which only lacked an invitation, trips around the countryside handing out healing words and sound advice, you know the sort of thing. I did pop into Peter Jones and suddenly realised that my rural concepts of value-for-money needed something of a makeover. A stroll down Pavilion Road revealed bread shops selling loaves at £4 a pop and slices of ham being sold on some sort of logarithmic scale of currency exchange which was patently taking into account a no-deal Brexit where anything from Bayonne had a 10m% tariff rate applied. Crazy – but there is enough money sloshing around there that those shops were [a] trading and [b] flourishing. How any of these people can even contemplate life under the Lib Dems or Comrade Jezza is beyond me.
The bet on Max in the Brazilian Grand Prix almost came unstuck, but we had at least four correct football selections in a five-fold to boost the odds to a more workable 11/4. A very tactical race, and you had to admire the relentless demands from the World Champion to his crew, to find him something more from the car. Almost any cliche about his ambition inevitably includes words like driven – fearsome and relentless will do for me.
I had some small personal successes this week and generally found that only backing horse that had a track record of running in mud stood any chance! This is about as revealing as saying the sky has clouds and the moon is far away. Still, all information helps, even if it narrows down the improbable. Today, I think….
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