Gambling Wallace

I've lost my way. I can't sleep without dreaming of it. The magnificent beasts paraded before flashbulb and punter. The endless commentary. The pomp and ceremony. I had never really thought of myself as a gambling man until this week, but I see my life has become increasingly paper thin, stretched out now over the final furlongs of the 2008 democratic nomination.

This two horse race has me chewing at the bit each morning. I hastily rise to trawl through the British and American newspapers looking for some clue as to the winner. The form changes daily. The tipsters/pundits have a race of their own, and are now so exhausted from the thousands of air miles and tired rhetoric, that sometimes they forget themselves and stick their necks over (or on) the line and offer real opinion on this interminably slow, but engrossing canter across the depressed and hungry plains of America.

I have still yet to make a bet. If this were a boxing match it would have been easier, but the one with the larger teeth may still win.