Mallet

I've been meaning to write a novel based on the beautiful sport of polo. Last week, as I was tootling along Leslie Road, I noticed a broken cedar rail along the roadside. My imagination took hold, wondering what I would do if a horse got loose, wandering along the country roadside. Would I stop and capture it? What would I use as a lead? My belt? Would the horse shy, nervous because of the passing cars along this country road?

I think I found the opening to my next novel. Of course, this will be after I finish the two languishing on my hard drive at the moment.

Today my daughter and I attended the 30th Annual Polo For Heart tournament in nearby Gormley. The Sifton family owns the farm and club, along with a local airport. Since I started at the newspaper, I've attended every competition that wasn't rained out, either as a corporate guest or as one of the hundreds of General Admission picnickers on the north side of the pitch.

This time we went corporate and dressed accordingly. The secret is to wear a wide brim hat and sunglasses in order to look mysterious, a cotton dress cool enough so you don't sweat, and heels wide enough not to sink into the soft turf.

There was no competition today due to the heavy rains yesterday, but we enjoyed demonstrations, good food and bright sunshine. For some reason the volunteer staff kept replacing my empty wine glass with a full one, much to the chagrin of my teetotalling daughter.

The food was to die for. They kept the dishes warm by perching searing cast iron frying pans on hot bricks -- chicken, steak, seafood, and also had a variety of salads. I'm proud to say I consumed my daily minimum of fruits and vegetables (fermented grapes included).

The Silent Auction featured many items beyond my reach, including a trip to the Antarctic and several NHL signed sweaters and pictures. Beth loved the dragon cane with hidden sword, and I liked the replica Spartan spear and shield a la 300. The Mick Jagger guitar wasn't half bad, either.

A lady approached me to bring my attention to a prominent former editor sitting at the next table, suggesting I should confront him regarding his publication of a book 'outing' a former Prime Minister. I responded that although I worked for the newspaper, I wasn't a journalist. I eyed the gentleman in question, wondering what he had done that was so wrong. I have his autobiography somewhere in the house... I guess I should read it.

Tomorrow I have the day off. Off to the Zoo!