I've just fallen into my ergonomic chair with a hastily-poured pre-prandial beaker full of the warm south (of Australia). I finally gathered the guts to go into the betting shop (Ladbrokes) on the high street and put a bet on Alicia. It was fraught with difficulty. I am a husk.
Thrice have I peered in and crept away, but today there were fewer folk lurking between me and the desk lady, so I went in and asked, all bold and off-hand, whether I might place a bet on the Oxford ballot. "On what?" asked the desk lady, albeit quite kindly. I explained and said that I had heard that they were giving odds on the result and the lady had heard of no such thing.
She was charming and listened to my babbling about having read of their involvement and of the poem (Matt's post #123) but was interrupted by sweating punters who rushed from the TV screens brandishing crispies with seconds to spare. She said she'd check. I kept going out and coming back, each time with no result but less apprehension, until I finally went back to my house, dropped off the groceries and printed out the relevant page from the Sphere. The lady read it, laughed aloud, phoned head office and eventually said she could take my bet - at the current price. I handed over a modest stake and have a ticket to prove it.
I can now tell you that, today at 10:55:01, the odds were 2/1 and the kind, patient desk lady was called Hayley.
Both are on the little toilet-paper ticket, the crinkly proof that I actually went into a betting shop all by myself. Yeah! Bring on the Space Station!
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