It's far from a dog's breakfast for the early risers at Henlow

It is half past eight on a Friday morning and, somewhere in Central Bedfordshire, a strapping female named Marge is licking my face. It may sound like a scene from a low-budget British remake of The Hangover but in fact this is Henlow Greyhound Stadium’s version of The Breakfast Club.

Sunrise is at 7.19am and less than 40 minutes later the first of Henlow’s runners are pinging the lids on a crisp, bright October morning.

With apologies to the poet Robert Browning, the lark’s on the wing, the snail’s on the thorn, and the hare is on the move.