The Grand National:
I am allergic to horses. Badly, badly, grim-reaperly allegric to horses. When I was about the age of 6 or 7, my parents went on their first holiday since being saddled with a handful of grubby, snotty-nosed little angels. We were sent away to my grandparents farm for a couple of weeks, a good 5 hours from Melbourne. This place was, and still is heaven. Even if it was burnt out almost three years ago, and then blanketed in 3 inches of snow last week. It is the place of all my childhood memories. It is the place I grew up. I don't have memories of my early years in Melbourne aside from a vague memory of red jelly in glass teacups, a flotilla of cousins and the Edna Walling garden of my other grandparents. But of butchers' paper and that big box of derwents, the aga stove and poddy lambs, that old white dodge ute, the weeping birch, the smell of lanoline and sheep sheds and woolly jumpers, ah me, I'm getting sentimental.
So the olds were away and my grandmother decided to show my brother and me the joy of horses. She put us on the last horse she ever broke in—a beautiful docile grey called MaryLegs (or was it MerryLegs?)—and led us up the driveway to the cattleramp and back, proud as punch, I'm sure. Then I started to sneeze. And sneeze again. And again. And rub my eyes. And wheeze. And go all red and puffy. And my nose ran. And my eyes ran. And I sneezed again. And breath came harder and harder. And she watched in horror, two hours drive from anything better then a six-room country hospital, fearing the worst.
Aghast with panic, she hauled me off and into the house and frantaclly ran a bath, the only solution she could think of. And so I was dunked repeatedly and vigourously, as only the rural can, to rid me of the nasty little mites that had caused the allergic reaction. Soaking, coughing, wheezing, I must have made quite a sight. After a hour or so sitting in this now tepid bath, I slowly began to return to something of my normal form. Cleansed.
To this day she still whinces in pain at the thought of that day: "I really thought I was going to have to explain to your parents that I'd killed you" she says.
I can't even feed a horse without having to vigourously scrub my hands thereafter, lest I go all allergicky again.
I love horse-racing. Luckily for me, it doesn't involve me actually touching any of the animal myself. I can even stand down-wind of one and, well, not exactly breathe the country air in deeply, but, well, I just stand down-wind of a horse. As a regular race-goer, I had never before been to a hurdles race. Never. Not once. They are not common events at most racetracks, hurdles or steeplechases, although there are certain carnivals that specialise in that sort of thing. The point being, I was desirous of attending some form of horse/jumping/ractrack event this year, a decision I made after the Autumn Carnival.
And then lo! An invitation lobbed into my mailbox, "The chairman and committee of the VRC invite skander and guest to join them at for lunch on Grand National Day, in the committee room at Flemington. Blah blah. Please ensure you arrive before 12:20 as the chairman will begin his welcome address at this time. Please also ensure your guest conforms to VRC dress standards." Or a close apporoximation of the above. What the invitation declined to make glaringly obvious was that at this luncheon was, in fact, 100%, you-beaut, fair dinkum laid on. Yep. Not a shilling would I have to shell (aside any wagers I cared to lay, of course).
We missed the speech, of course. But the buffet was something to write home about. Red fish, white fish, chicken, lamb cutlets (remember them?), fillet steak, roast beef, and salads galore. Start with a champers, red with the red meat, beer for the arvo and a quick spirit or too before heading off. Meanwhile there was a dessert buffet, with all manner o' tartes, sweetmeats (as opposed to sweetbreads) and cremes brulées, leter follwed by afternoon tea, with a whole new selection of savoury and sweet delights. A fine day was had by all, half of whom had grey hair, but the other half of us ran the gamut up from 30ish. I even knew three people there, which surprised me.
But the highlight of course was the sport. The day boasted only one jumping event, which was the Grand National pictured. And I had absolutely no luck. But that's not the pupose of a winter's day at Flemington.
So the olds were away and my grandmother decided to show my brother and me the joy of horses. She put us on the last horse she ever broke in—a beautiful docile grey called MaryLegs (or was it MerryLegs?)—and led us up the driveway to the cattleramp and back, proud as punch, I'm sure. Then I started to sneeze. And sneeze again. And again. And rub my eyes. And wheeze. And go all red and puffy. And my nose ran. And my eyes ran. And I sneezed again. And breath came harder and harder. And she watched in horror, two hours drive from anything better then a six-room country hospital, fearing the worst.
Aghast with panic, she hauled me off and into the house and frantaclly ran a bath, the only solution she could think of. And so I was dunked repeatedly and vigourously, as only the rural can, to rid me of the nasty little mites that had caused the allergic reaction. Soaking, coughing, wheezing, I must have made quite a sight. After a hour or so sitting in this now tepid bath, I slowly began to return to something of my normal form. Cleansed.
To this day she still whinces in pain at the thought of that day: "I really thought I was going to have to explain to your parents that I'd killed you" she says.
I can't even feed a horse without having to vigourously scrub my hands thereafter, lest I go all allergicky again.
I love horse-racing. Luckily for me, it doesn't involve me actually touching any of the animal myself. I can even stand down-wind of one and, well, not exactly breathe the country air in deeply, but, well, I just stand down-wind of a horse. As a regular race-goer, I had never before been to a hurdles race. Never. Not once. They are not common events at most racetracks, hurdles or steeplechases, although there are certain carnivals that specialise in that sort of thing. The point being, I was desirous of attending some form of horse/jumping/ractrack event this year, a decision I made after the Autumn Carnival.
And then lo! An invitation lobbed into my mailbox, "The chairman and committee of the VRC invite skander and guest to join them at for lunch on Grand National Day, in the committee room at Flemington. Blah blah. Please ensure you arrive before 12:20 as the chairman will begin his welcome address at this time. Please also ensure your guest conforms to VRC dress standards." Or a close apporoximation of the above. What the invitation declined to make glaringly obvious was that at this luncheon was, in fact, 100%, you-beaut, fair dinkum laid on. Yep. Not a shilling would I have to shell (aside any wagers I cared to lay, of course).
We missed the speech, of course. But the buffet was something to write home about. Red fish, white fish, chicken, lamb cutlets (remember them?), fillet steak, roast beef, and salads galore. Start with a champers, red with the red meat, beer for the arvo and a quick spirit or too before heading off. Meanwhile there was a dessert buffet, with all manner o' tartes, sweetmeats (as opposed to sweetbreads) and cremes brulées, leter follwed by afternoon tea, with a whole new selection of savoury and sweet delights. A fine day was had by all, half of whom had grey hair, but the other half of us ran the gamut up from 30ish. I even knew three people there, which surprised me.
But the highlight of course was the sport. The day boasted only one jumping event, which was the Grand National pictured. And I had absolutely no luck. But that's not the pupose of a winter's day at Flemington.
The beach on a cold windy day. What more do I need to say? It rocks. That's Phillip Island in the distance, the place all you tourists trek to for a glimpse of our fairy penguins. A once in a lifetime experience. As in, if you've done it once, there's no reason to ever do it again.
Any Melbournian who hasn't stopped for 15 minutes at the ACCA in Sturt Street, South Melbourne: do so. Before the end of this weekend. The ACCA is that fuck-off new rust coloured building next to the Malthouse theatre. If you're driving past, or on a Number 1 tram, stop in and check this baby out. And awesome little room of whimsical digitalness which will leave you with a smile on your face and a spring in your step. Well worth it.
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