Two to One

Do you ever feel like you’ve lost a bet, or a contest you had no idea was taking place?

Years ago, back when we lived on Manor Avenue, when we still had time to slouch around on a rainy Saturday afternoon with nothing in particular to do, we’d just had a spot of lunch and I had been half-heartedly browsing through the paper. In the background the TV was on - that old wooden clad box Beck inherited from her Grandfather, the inner tube for which eventually burnt out during Euro 2004.

Anyway, it’s Grand National Day and for some reason we’re sort of watching the BBC’s race coverage.

“Do you ever fancy gambling?” Beck asks.

I think about this for a moment. Usually I’m so unlucky that I steer clear of anything involving potentially losing money. I just don’t have the concentration required to bet properly.

“Maybe. Sometimes.” I shrug. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I suddenly feel as though I ought to bet on the Grand National. That it’d be a bit of fun.”

“There’s a bookies down the road,” I pause for a moment. “Tell you what. Why don’t we have a bet between us? Pick a horse. Whichever does better wins. The loser has to do the washing up for a month.”

“Okay,” she says enthusiastically. “That one.” A jockey in a pink and yellow checked shirt trots his house through the paddock.

“Why that one?”

“I like the colours.”

“All right,” I pick the favourite as I remember it from the sports pages earlier.

They’re off. We bounce on our old sofa for a couple of minutes, initially excited, then the tension wanes quickly. Horse racing clearly has limited appeal. Mine comes in second, Beck’s falls at the third hurdle and is, no doubt, hauled off to be shot.

“A whole month,” I chuckle.

At ten o’clock last night I pulled on the rubber gloves to scrape off the Mister Muscle oven cleaner, having already washed up (although not, admittedly, cooked) and run three loads of sweaty, mist-damp clothes through the washing machine I wondered what I’d bet against and what the stakes had been.