You, me, John Magnier . . . all in thrall to the same mad obsession

Perhaps they are like love letters, although rather unromantic ones, filled not with undying love and (hopefully) erotic undertones but with advertisements for sponsorship opportunities and superannuated rock acts, and admonishments to keep glasses and bottles away from the parade ring. Is that why I can't throw them away?

I did it again on Sunday, telling you this like a guilty man shambling into the confessional for a halting and humiliating debrief with his moral superior. I knew I shouldn't do it but I couldn't help it. I won't do it again. But I'm weak, and I will. It's a pointless, victimless crime but the evidence is stacking up incontrovertibly in that cardboard box in my wardrobe. Why do I keep all my racecards?

The most recent one is from Derrinstown day at Leopardstown, a guest of Derby sponsor Investec. It's just like all the others – glossy, informative, but with no shelf-life beyond the final race. Nevertheless, I packed it carefully into my suitcase, brought it back across the sea, took it upstairs and dropped it into the groaning cardboard box among its brethren. I'll never look at it again.