Grand National Day

Last year when Erbie was in my tummy, we had half a bitter shandy in the Fitzroy Tavern on Charlotte Street, to pick our horses, no winners though. The year before that I won on Silver Birch, and spent my winnings on champagne and white Egyptian cotton bedlinen. This year I won again, yey, and am contemplating anything from an Alex Munroe piece to shoes for Erbie. I only put two quid on each way, but got a return of £169, it would have been more if the Reader hadn't stuck with the odds at the time of betting, but I'm not complaining, far from it. Sadly, we spent the day with an underlying current of malice hovering in the air. I sensed it on waking, that look in his eyes, the voices were back in his head. We nearly came to blows, but managed an air of joviality, stern words spoken quietly and me dapping along like a soppy puppy that's not sure what it's done wrong. The sun was out and Erbie had fun, teething on the back burner. I went bare legged for the first time, should have shaved, but who was to know. Am sat in silence, some stupid film on TV muted, and the boys in bed. A drawer full of twenty pound notes, (it's a very small drawer, and I so wanted to say that).