A visit to the races recently got me thinking about value.
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It was a first for me and a rarity for country racing this year in that the event wasn't cancelled by rain.
Race-goers certainly flooded to the track and spirits were high.
That may have had something to do with the sun crossing the yardarm somewhere in the world that morning, or the night before.
And it may also have had something to do with getting decked up in your Friday best.
Everyone was dressed to the nines, at least, and some even higher if you counted that t-shirt with a tie painted on.
Fascinators outnumbered facemasks too, so clearly the first major punt of the day was not catching Covid.
We went for a "stock agent-gangster" look, as you do in the country.
And if anybody asked, we were pastoralists with an agricultural interest, mainly in lightening our wallets.
From the first race it was hard not to get caught up in the excitement of the call.
You certainly couldn't understand it, such is the nature of race calling.
But you tend to listen a more attentively once you place a bet.
Horse racing cops a bit of criticism as a result for being exploitative of both horse and humans.
But there seemed to be a lot of love trackside for the animals, particularly in the home straight.
And as for being a gateway to sin, well it's hard to defend the indefensible so we headed to the betting ring to back the unwinnable.
Responsibly of course.
Opinions varied on what was the best approach to this slippery slope.
Was it better to study the form, eyeball the odds, process track rumours and chase what those in the know call 'value'?
Or rather scientifically bet on horses that had a colour in their name?
In the context of punting, 'value' can be a murky concept but things became a little clearer when Red Scarlet Pinky Blue placed at decent odds in the next race.
From thereon in anything vaguely suggestive of a colour, or a sound, or a noun that was also a verb, or anything really, constituted potential value.
Returns suggested it might have been more efficient to simply give the bookie our cash.
Or the shirt off our back - the one with the tie painted on it.
But tradition dictated something had to happen in between races, and that thing was called "having a flutter".
The phrase doesn't really do justice to the emotional connection you establish with a bagman when you make your $5 each way plunge.
But it does complement that other thing you tend to do at the races, which is have a tipple.
It also hints at the dopamine rush you experience when your horse gets up, but you decided not to bet this race because you were starting to think there was no future in this line of investment.
By the end of the day, we'd experienced highs and lows, long queues to the toilet and raucous carousing on the courtesy bus back to base.
Base being the local club where we jagged a meat tray in the raffles.
It was a break even moment to a great day and something we all agreed constituted genuine barbecue value for later that night.
