We live in a very cynical age, as you know. So it was heartening to see that romance was alive and well last Monday, and running in the 3.50 at Plumpton. Yes, a horse called Parlez Moi D'Amour celebrated Valentine's Day by winning that racecourse's Mares Novice Hurdle at the highly romantic price of 50 to 1.
For those of you who don't speak French, the name means "speak to me of love"; and while the mare's recent record - 0006 - spoke to most observers of incompetence, she turned the form on its head and romped home.
(Note to concerned readers not familiar with racing parlance: don't worry, that's just an expression. She would have got a lift home in a horse-box, almost certainly.)
As someone who enjoys the odd bet, I normally take a more scientific approach to picking winners. For example, in the English Grand National, I've noticed that horses whose names begin with the letter "R" and include exactly two syllables have a proven record of success: e.g. Red Rum, Rag Trade, Rubstic and so on. But I'm not too proud to admit that sometimes I just bet on coincidences.
So what particularly galls me about last Monday is that Parlez Moi D'Amour was ridden by a jockey whose only other runner that day also had a French name: Ma Petite Rouge. And that as chance would have it (the horse's trainer was Noel Chance - spooky, or what?), Ma Petite Rouge had none either, according to the bookmakers.
It seems so obvious now. Valentine's Day, two horses with romantic French names and the same jockey. And, crucially, both complete no hopers; how on earth could I have missed it?
Anyway, Ma Petite Rouge started the charmingly named Cupid Juvenile Novice Claiming Hurdle at a barely considered 33 to 1. But it ran as though it had been hit in the backside by a stray arrow, and it too galloped first past the post; meaning that the accumulated odds against both horses winning was - wait for it - 1,733 to 1.
Think of it. For a mere £5 double, you could have bought a small car with the proceeds (for a £10 double, you could have afforded to park the car in Dublin). A particularly poignant thought for me, stuck as I am with a decade-old banger; which, if it were a horse, would be about 50-1 to win the forthcoming National Car Test Handicap Hurdle (for eight-year-olds and upwards).
In the interests of balance and lest I give younger, impressionable readers the idea that backing horses is a get-rich-quick scheme - difficult to argue with on the evidence I've presented - it's probably important to point out that among the horses which didn't win at Plumpton on Monday was one called Sir Valentine.
Highly fancied (no pun intended) Sir Valentine found the combined burden of top weight and being tipped to win by the Irish Times too much, and trailed in a distant seventh. There was also a runner called Be My Mot, which fell. Nevertheless, had you included all four horses in what we punters call a "Yankee", you'd still be laughing.
On a more serious note, and a propos the subject of people who "work with hair" - as featured last week - my colleague John McKenna e-mailed me with a related and fascinating story.
It concerned a visit he made last year to a West Cork neighbour, Ava Astaire McKenzie, daughter of the famous Fred, no less. ("Who's Fred McKenzie?" I can hear younger readers ask.) And to cut the story short, the name of an international food writer came up in their conversation, upon which Ava, straight-faced, said she and the writer shared a "hair therapist" in London.
Well-bred person that he is, John didn't ask her what a hair therapist does, and as a result he's still wondering. I'm afraid I can't help him, either; but at least now I know why you can buy shampoo for "damaged" as well as "normal" hair.
But how does therapy work? Say you're having a bad hair day, does the therapist address the top of your head and say: "you're not bad, you're just misunderstood?" Or split ends: "Pull yourself together, for God's sake". Maybe there's a therapist out there who can explain.
fmcnally@irish-times.ie
