So the other day we wanted to throw a party, and Ren and I couldn’t find a place in which to throw one, ’cause we couldn’t find a house without parents (this is the point in the story at which Mowmy said, “Why do you need a house without parents for a party?” and I said, “Because we like to break things,” and she said, “Oh, have it here and break all my dishes so I can go buy new ones!”), and then I was like, Hello, clearly, the races. So then I unsuspectingly mention to my father that I want to throw a party at the races, and he’s all, Oh, do you want to go and look around and see about a party and be in the owner’s box?, let me call my friend. So already this thing is getting more and more unexpected by the moment. Anyway, the next day my dad says, So Doctor Tan is going to the track on Friday, you can go with. And I’m like, Um, wait, are you going? And dads is like, No, no, I’ll be out of town. Right. So, y’know, I’m thinking, Hang out with my dad’s friends all night? At the bloody races? I don’t think so. But then I think, Weeelll, so, but, why not. Because, sure, let’s try something new, and how hard can it be.

So come Friday, I’m all Ascot chic—black tank top, white skirt with black embroidery, green Campers to go with the turf. And it turns out Doctor Tan and this other dude, Omie, are totally into horses, Omie is from like horse-racing family in India, and we get to the Turf Club and it’s all Good evening, Doctor Omie, Hello, Hello, Hello, Nice to see you again, bow bow bow. And we head into a fancylike room with air conditioning and a dress code and waiters and wine and buffet tables of food. And these huge glass windows looking down onto the track. At one point Omie’s like, I’m going to try to get you to place a bet on the next race. And I’m like, You got it! Don’t take much to make this girl bet on a horse! So I put twenty down on Polanski to win or place (like, place first, second, or third), and then the horses are off, and then not only does Polanski not win, he also doesn’t come in second or third. And then he comes in last. Hello, gimpy. After that I reverted to my original plan of backing horses (mentally, anyway, there was no more money in the horse budget) based on the jockey’s outfits. Or the horse’s crazy name.

Eventually I also moseyed on downstairs to where the hoi polloi was hanging out, and that was very cool because downstairs means the men in shorts and short-sleeve button-downs perched on the aluminium banisters, punching their fists in the air as they cheer; downstairs means the jockeys in shiny get-ups, funny little birdlike men who must have hollow bones, more than one of whom has skin pulled tight on his narrow face; downstairs means the stands selling hotdogs and coffee and kaya toast; downstairs means you’re at street level, which is to say track level, which is to say horse level—which is to say downstairs means that the horses race right past you in the open air, close enough that you feel your mouth drop open when horse number seven comes up from the rear, running past one, two, three, four, five horses, and comes in a close second. Which is to say that even though it meant I was hanging out with my father’s friends for like six and a half hours on a Friday night, the horse races totally get an A-plus.