Gambling with the vegetables.

The Grand National is an Irish horse race that covers 3 miles and 5 furlongs.

The Leek, a green and white vegetable related to the onion, is a lot shorter.

Whichever way you look at it, neither of them will fit comfortably in my fridge.

The two of them though are linked, not only by their inability to reside in my cool tray but also by a muddy field in Kent.
I was young, impressionable and working for a part of the winter half-term holiday with a bunch of lads from the youth club on a very muddy leek farm not far from my home.

Every morning we pulled leeks from the frozen ground, piled them into boxes and in the afternoon we helped the owner load them into his industrial leek cleaning contraption that was housed in an old shed.

Next to the old shed was an even older shed, full of rusting farm machinery, piles of old newspapers and several moth-ridden armchairs; it was here at lunchtime that we ate sandwiches around a small fire.

Occasionally a mysterious weather beaten old man joined us, appearing suddenly and he helped pull leeks before disappearing into the mist.

He came with the farm and belonged to the earth.

He never said very much, probably considered us as fools and used to just sit by the fire watching and listening.

One day as we rose to fill a few more boxes, he came alongside and whispered into my ear; his breath felt ancient and wise.

“The National, Arkle”, and then he became part of the mist.

I had seen enough movies and read enough books to recognise what this was – a hot tip.

I should have bet, I didn’t.

I tell you this because yesterday, hidden in the brackets of the day’s post, I predicted the result of a football match.

I shall now disappear into the mist.