Race Courses and childhood things

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We were at a show all day today. It was OK. The usual suspects, and some real delights. The joy of the day was the trip there. I drove with Juliette. She was helping me. It was quickly established that her map reading skills were less than mine. It was such fun.

As a child I had to go to the races. We, my sisters and I, used to collect the jockey’s autographs. We would lie in wait for them out side the Jockey club, never realising that we were endlessly asking the same men who had changed their colours every race. I digress. The point was that this show was held at Kempton Park Race Course. Beautiful. Quite lovely, but in my head we were going to Epsom Race Course. Why? I have absolutely no idea. I looked up Epsom on the map and saw it was so close that there was no need to take a B & B, I could drive it. Yesterday, when they went to set up, I gave my husband directions to Epsom. Luckily he forgot them and my assistant had printed the correct route. They got there and all was fine.

So, this morning, the directions were up on the screen of my computer. I printed them off but merely glanced at them thinking nothing of the fact that it was no-where near Epsom. I headed for the M3 shrugging off any ideas that it was no-where near Epsom.
Several miles down the A3 I asked Juliette how we were doing. She had no idea, but the question asked itself of me and I had to admit to being on the wrong motorway. We pulled off at a racehorse signpost, but it was Sandown Park. I remember it well. Still, no good. Re-found the A3 then took the M25 to the M3. Came off and went the wrong way. 1.5 hours later we rolled up at Kempton Park.

By this point I was hysterical with laughter and very grateful for a sense of humour.