There is nothing quite like Aintree’s Ladies Day on Grand National Friday when the girls emerge from local tanning salons, whatever the weather, in roaming she-packs of wispy chiffon. No opportunity to add an extra bow or ra-ra flounce is neglected. Only the shy ones stop at bottom-hugging red satin and six-inch glitter heels. For superstructures, the motto is: ‘United we stand, divided we fall.’ One quartet pointed at my slightly jaunty red corduroys and declared, ‘We’ll have those off youse.’ Uncertain whether it was a compliment or threat, I fled.
Further challenges followed. Arriving at my long-booked hotel I was met by a security guard, inquiring if I had come to buy the place. It had closed six weeks previously. Then I learned that, for production reasons, this column had to be confined to 600 words, leaving me sympathising with the lawyer–MP given three minutes to address a Tory Party conference: ‘In the Central Criminal Court,’ he protested, ‘they give me three minutes merely to clear my throat.’
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