Hello, folks. Evening Press here.

Yeehah, or some such outburst hollered by those silly-looking blokes you see on the box carrying guns and wearing those darned awful spiky spurs.

At least I know why they yell such a phrase. It sums up the state I am in. After the second longest wait in the animal kingdom - the first, of course, being a vigil for Shergar - it finally looks like I am going to be in action.

My trainer Tim Etherington, awfully nice chap, has whispered in my shell-like that I am entered in not just one, but two meetings next week.

I won't be racing in both - heaven forfend, I'm not a workhorse - but if I don't make the first five-furlong outing at Ripon on Tuesday, then I should be 'off' over the same distance at Catterick on Wednesday.

At last. No one wants to rush a lady, but even I feel I have been cooling my well-shaped hoofs for far too long.

Talking the talk, even for an eloquent equine like my good self, is no good when you can't walk the walk. Mind you, I'm aiming to run like the wind to get to that finishing post first.

There's a lot of hay to be munched before then, but I'm keeping my fetlocks crossed that those Evening Press colours will be worn with pride. It certainly is a boost that my debut is earmarked for North Yorkshire. What a great way that would be to gallop into history.

An even bigger thrill would be for me to grace the lushness of Knavesmire and York's historic racecourse, which I have been glued to - ooh, such an unfortunate phrase - this past week.

The Ebor meeting spectacle set the pulses racing right through our Wold House stables at Norton.

I notice there's no stopping that football fella Sir Alex Ferguson. He had a winner on Ebor Day itself, though may be I wouldn't want to race for him. I pride myself on being a firm follower of fashion, but even I would not like the idea of having to change my colours every other week.

Must dash, Ripon or Catterick is calling.

Regards,

Evening Press.

Updated: 14:32 Friday, August 24, 2001