Swim time

Harry had his first swim class this week. And, in true Harry style, took it all in his stride.

I don't mean to come across as one of those doting parents who claim that their little bundle of joy is a Jose Mouriho, eg 'The Special One', after all it was just a swimming lesson in which the most significant challenge posed was having to listen to dad try to sing along to nursery rhymes while bounce him about in a heated hydrotherapy pool. But really, the kid does seem quite unflappable in most situations.

In this he takes solely after his mum. Rather than drop his bundle and have a sook (a method of 'dealing' which his father is known to favour), Harry applies the Wehrmann approach of implacable determination and quiet fortitude.

I on the other hand was a bundle of nerves. I was clearly the most out of shape parent in the pool (the iceberg technique of keeping 90% of my bulk under water is an excellent coping mechanism) but I was also one of only two dads in the group - and at least the other guy knew all the words to 'ring a ring a rosy'.

But thankfully Harry was a star and I was able to bask in his reflected glory. Pour water over his face and he gurgled with joy, flop him off the edge and he'd reach straight back for the wall (as opposed to one little munchkin that went a little Jacques Cousteau on us) and put him on his back and drag him along and those chubby wee thighs went kick, kick, kick.

Look out Thorpie.

I know there are bigger challenge to come, and for those we will both look to the measured guidance of his mum, but in the meantime I'm already practicing my ten second grabs for the Channel Seven cameras.

You know the ones.

Little junior has just won his third Olympic medal for Australia and the camera pans to the proud parents in the stands. The reporter joins said proud parents and asks 'How does he do it Mr Sutherland'.

And I'll reply 'Well a lot of hard work and determination obviously Laurie, but I'll be honest, I did lead the Bronte under 10s Nippers to victory in the Eastern Suburbs Surf Carnival so I suppose genetics had a fair bit to do with it too'.

Taking a punt

It's been a while since my last blog. I think I largely got caught up in the mundane task of keeping Harry happy.

And as I got better at it I think the job lost some of the mystique it originally held. The simple task of running your life on anothers timetable became so everyday, so commonplace, that I figured I would need something bigger, something more profound, to bother my reader with as a blog topic.

And tonight that topic came to me in a moment of clarity - punting.

I've been a punter from way back. Both my grandmothers were punters, though vastly diferent types. My grandmother on my dad's side, Francis, she was a mathematical whizz. She used to go to the races and out bookie the bookies. She was that good, that quick, that she could sum up a number of bookies boards in a flash, run the numbers and see an opportunity in their books. Done right it means no matter the result you can't lose. You only win small percentages per race - but you win.

I never knew her as a punter, apparently she gave it away when she and granddad stopped running their cash business, a garage. She never talked about it much, but when pressed she told me it was when they stopped running the garage she realised how much they were betting on any given race. I doubt that. She was a canny woman, one of the smartest I've ever known, and I'm sure she knew where the book stood at any given moment. There must have been a reason but I never got it out of her.

My grandma on my mum's side, Marie, she was a totally different kind of punter. She followed horses, trainers, jockeys (Mark DeMontfort was the second love of her life after Granddad) and she followed whatever hunch took her superstitious Irish soul. And damn it, she used to win too.
Whenever she took me out to Rosehill as a youngster we would invariably spend a fair while in the collect queue. For her. My picks - my nags - were often still running when we moved over to join the queue.

It was from grandma that I picked up the real racing bug.

The track is a special place. It has its own timetable, its own rhythm and its own language. Despite my mother's best efforts I never got into theatre, opera or the symphony. The track held more than enough drama for me. When school sport allowed, and I could get away, I would make my way to Royal Randwick for the Saturday races.

Mum would put my bets on of a Friday evening (though from about 13 onwards the guys running the TAB at fiveways would let me put my bets after the last race had run so long as I was subtle, and quick about it). I'd then make my way up to Oxford St, through Centennial Park and on to the track.

Once there I'd load up on as much junk food as I could afford from the remains of my pocket money and make my way to the Queen Elizabeth stand. Always the same stand and always the same seat.

In hindsight I think I got moderately special treatment from the attendants. At the time I thought nothing of it, but they must have found the fat little kid sitting up in the stands smacking his bum, yelling himself hoarse and ripping up his fifty cent TAB tickets in dismay their own special form of theater.

But like any true punter I didn't let constant defeat bring me down. Who could? After all if there wasn't the next race there was always next week. I'm not a practicing Catholic (though in deference to the grandparents I was baptised) and my personal redemption did not lie in the repair of divine honour, it lie in the next race.

I've matured a little now. I still whack my arse and yell myself hoarse, I still rip up too many tickets. But I don't chase my losses, I try not to 're-invest' my winnings and Marie's sage words 'don't bet on the last race it's just for the bookies' have finally taken root.

How does this relate to daddy day care? I don't know. Maybe Harry will be as much of a punter as I was an opera fan. I hope not though, I hope he too embraces the mystery of the track, the majesty of the punt - and that oh so special feeling of beating the bookie.