Horse Feathers

                A week ago, while I was at work, I wanted to bet on some horses, and the only bookmaker’s near to my workplace was a Ladbroke’s. Now my wife and I try to avoid Ladbroke’s where we can. My wife was once all but accused of not paying her stake by a member of staff at our local branch; and when she complained to the organization, she was ignored. Since then, we have not had a good opinion of them.

          But I figured, well, that idiot who accused her didn’t work at this branch, so I popped in during my lunch hour. One of my bets was what they call a double, where you pick two horses, and if your first horse wins, your winnings go straight onto the second horse. As a backup, I backed the horses separately, too, so that if one won but the other one didn’t, I would still have something to show for it.

          Before I left work that night, I checked the results on At The Races UK, and this I could have sworn, that neither horse in my double had run. When your horse doesn’t run at all, you get your money back. I wanted to get straight home, so I didn’t go back to the Ladbroke’s where I’d placed the bet, thinking that I could get my money back from the branch near my home (which I have no moral objection to).

          I went into our local branch the next day, intending to go onto the shops afterwards, where my wife would be waiting for me. I showed my betting slips to the Chinese guy who was alone behind the counter. One slip he said he would have to ring the original branch about. I thought that this was unusual, but assumed he knew what he was doing.

          For the double slip, he only handed me back a £1 coin. I was expecting £3. I questioned him about it, but he said, in mangled English, no, I was only getting £1. All this time, other punters were thrusting by me to place their own bets, two seconds before the starts of their races, which I think is the height of rudeness.

          I waited and waited. He couldn’t reach the other branch, so I took back that slip; but he wouldn’t give me the other slip, with the double on it, because he had officially paid out, nor would he give me anything other than $1. He was becoming louder, and I became correspondingly shriller. I said: “Have you got a manager here?” I had to ask him three times, my voice becoming louder each time. I was trying to stay polite, but feeling more and more frustrated. He said that the manager was taking a break. I said I’d wait.

          I rang my wife to tell her that there was a hold up. She annoyed me by saying: “Make sure you get all your money,” as if I’d choose to be defrauded. Fifteen minutes went past. I could feel all eyes on me. My stomach was churning with the electronic whirrs of the fruit machines.

          When was the manager coming back? In another fifteen minutes. The Chinese guy tried telling me, again, that I was only entitled to £1. He said that one of the horses had actually run. This was news to me.

          I said, “Alright, so one of the horses ran, but the other one still blew out. Surely I should get my money back for that?” He said, no; when you place a double bet and one horse doesn’t run, your entire stake then goes onto the horse which did run. He then appealed to a woman punter who was standing there. She said: “Yeah, that’s the ruling.”

          I wanted the earth to swallow me. I had to get out of that bookies fast. I tried to talk to the Chinese guy, but he wouldn’t look at me. I ended up shouting through the glass partition: “I’m sorry that I shouted at you!” and then I left.

          Outside, I took a deep breath. I was shaking, and I swore to myself that I would never go into that Ladbrokes again for any reason. I started walking up towards the shops. When I was halfway there, I realized I’d left behind the £1 the Chinese guy had been willing to give me.

          Last Sunday, when that incident was becoming a distant memory, I set out to place a bet for my wife. When I got to our usual bookmaker’s, which is a Coral’s, about whom I cannot say a bad word, it was nearly mid-day, so I didn’t expect any trouble other than from last-minute merchants barging past me. But when I got there, the lights were off and there was nobody inside. Standing on the pavement outside, looking disgruntled, was one of the members of staff, who said something about a magnetic lock still being locked. Time was pressing. My wife’s first horse was about to run. The nearest bookmaker’s was the Ladbroke’s in which I’d shown myself up a week ago.

          I slunk in there. The Chinese guy was on duty with another guy. I rewrote my wife’s bets swiftly, then went to the counter. This time, nobody barged past me, and guess who I was served by? To his eternal credit, the Chinese guy served me without any recognition or any rancour. We thanked each other, and I got out.

          When I told my wife what had happened, she said that if any of her horses won, I would have to collect the winnings for her.

                                                *

          I was cynical about the beginnings of new years, but at this precise moment, I feel alright, and that 2015 won’t be so bad. 2014 was okay, but I was directionless. I never quite got around to doing the things I promised myself. We didn’t buy and install a washing machine or a new cooker, we didn’t renegotiate our lease, we didn’t recarpet our flat our fit a new bathroom suite. In summer, I mucked about painting the hallway- the walls came out fine, but I made a real mess of the woodwork, and now our doors won’t shut.

          We celebrated our 20^th wedding anniversary in Dublin, and we went to Dorset to see the place where my late father was billeted during the war. Other than that, we drifted through the year, and the principal fault for that lies with me. I couldn’t face any big upheavals, the thought of a load of practical stuff brought me out in a cold sweat.

          But I’m starting 2015 feeling cautiously optimistic, and part of the reason for that is because I decided not to read on the trains to work or on the trains coming home again. Instead, I listened to music on the i-pod. Similarly, I didn’t watch DVDs in the mornings, or listen to any radio programmes except music ones.

          This is the nearest I can get to a reading-deprivation week, as outlined in Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, and various others of her books. It’s a kind of fiction detox, and actually Julia Cameron extends the ban to all reading, including newspapers, emails, etc. As much as I would like to do this, I have to read as part of my job.

          Still, even this watered-down version of the reading-free week had benefits. Writers get addicted to stories, we can start craving them constantly.

          It was a particularly hard time for a story-free week. I’ve got a load of terrific books on the go. The second series of the magnificent Broadchurch began on Monday. On BBC radio i-player, there’s some good programmes, including the dark fantasy series Pilgrim by Sebastian Baczkiewicz on Friday, a radio version of Sheridan Le Fanu’s Carmilla. That’s on top of the DVDs I got for Christmas.

          One of the benefits of the detox was that I started telling myself stories, as if to compensate. Because, writing-wise, I’m at square one.

          I don’t know what story to tell. I don’t know which form it should take. It was the one blot over Christmas, actually, that I felt rudderless. My writing group will be starting again soon. Before I know it, it will be my turn to bring in something to read. I’ve got a batch of horror stories which have never seen the light of day, so that’s not a problem. It’s just that…I’m going off horror fiction.

          It worries me, that last sentence. For four or five years, horror has been my obsession. I can’t seem to get any new ideas for horror stories, and I can’t face looking at an incriminating blank page again. I’m stuck.