A Royal Ascot to remember: how I was kidnapped by the late, great Alan Ball

There is no medicine like hope, no incentive so great, and no tonic so powerful as expectation of something tomorrow.
Orison Swett Marden

The Sunday after Ascot is a tough one, isn't it? If it helps, it's my Sunday on and, if you're back home, I'll have been halfway through the afternoon shift and shovelling s**t as you were shuffling across the kitchen with your Alka Seltzer ahead of that agonising reach for the Rennies.

You might even be asking yourself why you do it every year; the hope of Tuesday's dawn, the exciting journey in, the school kid giddiness upon arrival, meeting everyday friends, occasional acquaintances and those 'annual Ascoteers', people you meet and laugh with every year. I regularly fell in with loads of them. It starts with smiles in the car park.