I’m running late, very late, for a funeral. Well, not a funeral, but a farewell. I miss the 12.57 train at Kensington, so I decide to make a walk-jog-run for it to Macaulay station, a good 500 metres. The iPhone says I’ve got 5 minutes. Usain Bolt can do a hundred in 10 seconds, so I should have no trouble with a hundred every minute. Easy peasy. But I’m on the verge of collapse as I cross Moonee Ponds Creek and watch despairingly as the train pulls out of Macaulay. What to do? The funeral starts at 1.55 pm and the next train will be 20 minutes. So I trudge back to Kensington for the 1.17 pm. Sit down, catch my breath, and an announcement. The 1.17 has been cancelled! Next train is 1.37 pm. What to do? In an instant I’m off and make a walk-jog, no way am I running for it, back to Macaulay station. Spare me. Two minutes to spare. A good connection at Flinders Street, an express to Caulfield, and no way am I running ever again. On course seven minutes late and the funeral hasn’t even started.

Not a bad crowd. The Reverend Gerard Whateley is doing the eulogy. His voice doesn’t waver as he sings the praises of the soon to be departed. And you can’t leave the pollies out of it. Dennis Napthine waxes lyrical about that big backside. Pete mutters a few words. The jockey mounts, parades around to stirring music, and soon it’s all over. To think, all this fuss for a horse. A horse is just a horse, even if it is Black Caviar.

The best bit? The stable letting everyone get their hands on history.

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