In recent advertising, national hunt racing has been calling itself ‘the original extreme sport.’ I disagree – sex is the original extreme sport, surely?

Ah, but I do love racing. Or, more specifically, I love Festival Week at Cheltenham in March.

My mum despairs of the sheer femaleness of my hobbies. ‘How will you ever meet a man at the WI?’ she asks repeatedly. Racing is one of the few places I go where there are men as far as the eye can see, but here’s my crucial error: I go with my dad and his mates.

There are many advantages to this. My dad makes a good picnic, buys my ticket and my dinner, and believes a bottle of champagne is an essential feature of Gold Cup day.

But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to go alone, to stand amongst all that male excitement and catch the eye of some guy who’s just had a winner.

There’s another twenty-five minutes before the next race and he’s £500 up. He’s feeling pretty damn cocky and sure of himself and he sees me there, looking at him brazenly and daring him to make a move.

He knows I’m up for it. I’m not like all the girls who are there for hen dos, with their sky-high, grass-inappropriate stilettos and immaculate hair and make up. I have a nice dress on, sure, but my manicure is slightly chipped and I’m wearing boots – all the better for getting down and dirty in.

He takes me out to where the jockeys park their Porsches with the personalised number plates. There’s no one round here once the meeting’s started. He pushes me up against the railing – lifts my dress, pulls my tights down. Fifteen minutes ago he was leaning against a rail just like this one screaming his horse’s name. Now his voice has dropped: ‘Little slut,’ he’s whispering in my ear.

He thrusts hard and fast: he needs to collect his winnings, place his next bet. He brings his hand down to my clit, rubs hard, makes me come. And then it’s a race for his own climax – a race to put out, zip up, fuck off.

He bites down hard on my neck as he comes, then, with a slap on the arse, he’s gone, leaving me soaked and aching.

That’s my idea of a good day out, basically.