BEFORE I GET TO PLUMPTON...

I have one regret about that evening. There was a book signing afterwards. With our luggage already swollen with Brighton memorabilia, was there space for another book? Suzi thought so; I wasn’t so sure and walked away. Looking back now, it seems like a petty act of betrayal. Had I done otherwise I would have one his signed books here in this flat and on its shelves. But that is a small loss. The greater one is that I failed to do what I should have done: shake Hitch’s hand.

I started this post two weeks ago, on 16 December, a few hours after hearing of his death. Initially I’d intended beginning it with reminiscences of our 2005 Brighton Hogmanay. So now, a tad belatedly, and two hundred sad words later… On New Year’s Eve I texted Suzi at the lingerie department where she worked saying, courtesy this newspaper: ‘racing at plumpton tomorrow. free bus from the railway station.’ (I liked that last bit!) Knowing we needed clear heads for the following day, Hogmanay alcohol consumption was rationed – but not to zero. The big question facing us was where to see in ‘the bells’. We quickly agreed on one thing: not indoors. The venue had to be emblematic of Brighton and where better than the pier? Before hitting the beach we hit a couple of pubs – one near the Old Ship Hotel, where a young, raucous but convivial crowd were in prep. for all-night partying. (Oh how we envied them their energy and livers.) Across the road at midnight we joined the other celebrants, taking a tipple from our flask, toasting 2006 and distributing a bit of seasonal Scottish tradition: shortbread. Something to drink would have been preferred no doubt, but the askance recipients were too polite to say so.

The occasion reminded Suzi and I of how blessed we were. Our long planned-for and greatly anticipated ephemeral emigration was, my backache apart, proving to be better than we’d ever imagined it could be. We texted family and friends and though we missed them hugely we knew that at least for one-night-only, we didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

The almost deserted streets we walked along the following morning and the dry, bracing air revived us. On Queens Road a newsagent’s was open and we bought the Racing Post and take-away coffees. Our awaiting coach looked forlorn: no other cars or buses were around. It was also forlorn inside: empty seats far outnumbering those occupied. But we didn’t care: this was Ne’er day with a difference – the first time we’d brought in the New Year at a race track and, true to what our Sussex adventure was all about, a ‘first and last time’ at Plumpton.

An hour later and within minutes of disembarking at the course Suzi was button-holing trainer Brendan Powell, who was in mid-conversation with one of his owners. In his riding days Brendan was inextricably linked with Dublin Flyer, a fine steeplechaser that had won Suzi a few quid, including once at Cheltenham where she’d shouted the Flyer on to victory. Now she had the chance – maybe a once in a lifetime chance – to tell Brendan how much he and the horse meant to her. With the said owner temporarily silenced Brendan was quizzed about all aspects of the Flyer including how was he keeping? (In good health and high spirits, she was assured). I was frantically tugging Suzi’s coat and eventually she took the hint. Unfortunately she didn’t take Brendan’s and recklessly lost a lot of dosh on one of his least promising runners.

It was a sign of worse to come. At high-altitude in mid-winter we spent much of the afternoon in the cosy, crowded racecourse café selecting one also-ran after another. Late in the afternoon she plunged her fingers into her handbag for one final bet in the ‘getting-out’ stakes. ‘Where’s the £20 note?’ she asked aloud. After eliminating all other possibilities she concluded that she must have dropped it during her recent visit to the loo. The note was never seen again. I said, smiling, ‘your money’s down the pan’. She replied, smiling: ‘and yours will be paying for the bet’, but neither of us smiled when the money trailed in last.

Now we were forlorn - but not our free bus. It stood no longer alone but in a long line of other, presumably ‘free buses’, that had brought from near and far hopeful race-goers. On re-boarding our coach we found,too, that it was no longer like the Marie Celeste: almost every seat was occupied. A selfish but consoling thought crossed my mind: we weren’t alone in losing our shirts.

Following a wee drive, today, January 1st, sees us bringing in the New Year in Kilmarnock – the former home of Johnnie Walker. The resolutions flow as thick and fast as the drink. The weather is unseasonably warm. The company is excellent. But still, we’d rather be in Plumpton - but most of all, we’d rather be in the Dome.

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