áLast night as the witching hour stole upon me - its approach masked by the sound of raindrops flung from the clouds in wretched pacts of ankle-deep treachery (a month's worth drenched Melbourne in mere hours, the online broadsheet tells me!) - my dreams inevitably shifted towards what impact such weather would have on the Flemington track condition this Saturday. This is typical of most punters, really, wherein the gentle kiss of sun on Thursday morning flower buds can be greeted with abuse an
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Last night as the witching hour stole upon me - its approach masked by the sound of raindrops flung from the clouds in wretched pacts of ankle-deep treachery (a month's worth drenched Melbourne in mere hours, the online broadsheet tells me!) - my dreams inevitably shifted towards what impact such weather would have on the Flemington track condition this Saturday. This is typical of most punters, really, wherein the gentle kiss of sun on Thursday morning flower buds can be greeted with abuse and derision, much to the bemusement of courtyard-enjoying housemates who hadn't taken the outrageous fixed odds about a noted mudlark the night before. For some reason, Black Caviar was running at Flemington in this reverie of mine. Perhaps, like some sort of jealous lover, my subconscious felt insecure seeing her in the rapturous embrace of another; compelled to whisk her away from her Sydney 'business trip' as quickly as possible. But back to my dream...
As she paraded in the mounting yard with lightning flashing overhead, her multi-million dollar fetlocks entrenched in the soupy earth, I started to panic, convinced that she was going to do herself an injury as the course continued to be inundated with water. Just as I was about to drag Luke Nolen off the magnificent mare's back and ride her to the safety of timber, feed bin and blanket myself, I heard the scratching siren wailing on the wind - as vivid as if I were actually living it. Which, funnily enough, I was, because as I woke to the hysterical barking of my dog, I realised that the scratching siren was actually my horribly out of tune musical doorbell (a relic of a previous tenant, naturally), which was playing on endless loop having apparently been breathed new life by the rain. I cannot stress enough how annoying this doorbell is - especially so at three in the morning - so after a few minutes of patient tinkering with a screwdriver, a couple of swift hammer blows restored to the night air the contemplative drum of rain upon roof. Having just perused the Flemington noms for Saturday, perhaps a double of Hpnotiq Dream into Testa My Patience could be in order?