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Traditionally,
and for many years, Fridays were days of profound meditation and mental
dexterity for my grandparents (on my father's side) "What horse did yer back in the last race?" said one. "What you worryin' about mine fer?" said the other.
Finally, their
secret bets were folded "That horse? A waste of good money." Their superstitious practice of spitting on both sides of the envelope containing their bets, after they were sealed, completed the first part of their weekly entertainment. Grandad was then dispatched with great urgency to the Post Office half a mile away. On his return, part two of their weekly ritual commenced: "Don't tell me yer lies. Which way did you go from yer?" she demanded.
"Oh, not this
again "You liar! Where did you get that mayflower in your lapel? You must have gone through the back lanes," she insisted. My young mind tried to work out why he always allowed her to interrogate him. Later I learned why: "Oh, she's always bin the same. She'll never change. She's as jealous as hell that he'll pick up a fancy woman," Mam explained, adding, "Yer father's the same. He don't like me going anywhere without him," nodding in his direction as if he wasn't there. My grandparents occasionally won on the gee-gees, but predictably it was soon returned to the bookies'; lost on a nag that gave them their emotional 'fix'. For to such compulsive gamblers, losing was almost like winning. Their home, their attire, indeed everything about them, was a sad reflection of their all-consuming habit. Worst of all, they were robbing themselves. There are no shortcuts to happiness. Gambling is the entrance to an empty room with no exits. Ironically, because the financial consequences of their self-deception was plain for all to see, they gave less cause for concern than the subtler deceptions that are covertly designed to mislead the young.
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