Monday, 4 November 2013


The Mexican wave of humanity surged forward as one voice, a crescendo of excitement as the gleaming horseflesh thundered past. Glorious musculature rippled and strained as the sun caught the shadows and marked the flight. The symphony of silks shimmered as frantic sweating bodies fought for the glory of the winners' enclosure. Then the dampened sigh of group disappointment peppered with shrieks of delight as the race was run.
Gloriously attired ladies in ranks of flowing finery, their heady perfume mingling with the earthier scents of equine warriors. Parading bodies of Arabic excellence, strutting arrogantly round the paddock, heads tossing, tails swishing, a cacophony of Chestnut, Grey and purist Black. Majesty personified.
Hearing the discordant, mechanised, shrill announcing of the next race, scurrying Top Hats and Morning Suits, agitating around coarse-voiced Umbrellas. Odds shouted, punters jostling, pick-pockets thieving and the mounting tension as the fillies strut their stuff towards the distant staring gates.
Magic filters out the oxygen iun the air, as the previous winner holds aloft the silver chalice of success and smiles lead away their steaming treasure towards his well deserved rub down and reward.
On the periphery of all this rioutous splendour and multicoloured fantasy, he sits alone, head in hands, pockets to let, a broken dream.
The Social Pariah of the afternoon.
The Loser.

the copyright of this post belongs to CH

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