ghosts

 

The cafe is buzzing.

Amid the clamour I hear people at an adjoining table talking about a horse called Fast Or Slow.

My spider senses tingle as does my incipient gambling addiction.

I risk a sidelong glance.

A party of ladies disporting attractively in animated conversation, each with her own beauty, but all wearing the identikit livery of a stud farm.

You know what that means.

These bims know what they're talking about.

The horse will run tomorrow at Punchestown and he's going to win.

Steady Heelers.

You haven't gambled in years.

But I could win it all back.

Turn it all around with one mighty coup.

With trembling hand I raise a laden fork and munch a ruminatory mouthfull of omelette.

Outside a freezing mist drifts phantomlike across the Curragh plains.