Despite last week’s winning selection, readers of this blog might feel that my approach to tipping is a little bit slip-shod: that the logic behind the selections is wishy washy. Importantly, though, the logic is never washy wishy and my shod has never slipped.

Bookmakers occasionally still use tic-tac to communicate the odds in the betting ring, especially if the favourites are flip-flopping. But they’ve never used tac-tic to warn that the favourites have flop-flipped…

I’ve shelved the shoes in favour of sporting sandals. Not because they’re very much more comfortable on sun-kissed sandy beaches, but because I’m padding the streets of Central London and I think there’s a small possibility that, while visiting the museums and galleries, I’m more likely to get mistaken for an intellectual if people can see my socks.

Every generation suffers the fear of a major, overbearing threat. When I was growing up it was the nuclear threat: the fear that the Cold War would result in total annihilation; if you didn’t get evaporated by a bomb blast then you’d be fried slowly from the inside out by radiation. I’m not saying that I was scarred by my childhood – but, to this day, I harbour a deep distrust of microwave ovens.

It’s surprising what you can find when you look in the hedgerow. Edible flowers, herbs and wildlife – including the occasional fallen rider…

One of the things I look forward to most about Cartmel’s BBQ Race-meeting is the venison burgers from Furness Fish and Game. It’s one small bite for a man, one huge picnic for mankind…

I have a confession. I can’t remember which horse won the County Hurdle on the final day of the Cheltenham Festival this year.

The problem is, after decades of dedicated Festival form study, I have developed a new obsession in the form of scotch eggs. And every time I think about Gold Cup Day, I can’t get beyond the delicious scotch eggs that we enjoyed in the car park before racing.

While browsing the shelves of Waterstones in Carlisle last weekend, I picked up a copy of Tuesdays with Morrie, an account of enlightening conversations between an American journalist (the author Mitch Albom, who portrays himself as a bit of a schmuck) and his former college professor who is dying from a degenerative disease.

First published in 1997, the book offers wisdom on life, death, love, family, work, money, fear and forgiveness. Nowadays of course we don’t have to talk to old men because we have the internet instead…

While there are many people around here that believe summer has already been and gone, during that brief sunny period we enjoyed in mid-May, an astrologer would tell you that it has only just begun – starting, as it does, with this week’s summer solstice.

Next week, representatives of the world’s oldest professions will gather in the company of royalty for one of the world’s most celebrated events. Lawyers, spies, politicians, prostitutes, drug dealers, purveyors of alcohol and racehorse trainers – they’ll all be found among the crowd at Royal Ascot, some probably more welcome than others.

The trick, to enjoying the races, is to have just the one drink.

But, as Oscar Wilde wrote, I can resist everything except temptation. Somehow resistance to the second drink is weakened by the first and pretty soon you realise, as you wander from picnic to picnic, that you won’t be driving anywhere later in the day. Probably not anywhere until Sunday…