lusty reunions require a serious beauty regimen, just ask Rach.

Brrr….it’s cold outside. But when a special occasion (did someone say hot date?) springs into the iPhone calendar it’s time to give the beauty routine a shake-up.

When the sun becomes as illusive as Johnny Depp, it’s so easy to hang up the beauty routine and let things go a bit wild… An extra day or two (or ok, week) between leg shaves, cancelled bikini wax appointments, toes that have forgotten what the word pedicure means, a diet that’s major food group is pasta (ok, ok, pizza).

It’s hard, I know and as I type I am considering NOT putting on the Lycra and heading out into the frost to go for a run. One reason that might persuade me? I have a hot date coming up with my hubby. It’s been way too long since I’ve seen him and I want to look fab with a capital F when we reunite next week.

Cue Beauty Boot camp on steroids.

I’m putting the frosty weather (and the tears) aside and have embarked on a beauty rampage to try and get myself set for the long-haul flight to see Simon, while also attempting to look appropriately warm-weather for the London summer. I’m not after miracles but I do want to look less bedraggled, more beautiful when I unite with my London-bronzed husband. (Ok, that was a bit Mills and Boon, but it’s been weeks, bear with me)

The beauty bonanza started with a trip last week to Harr in Elwood to see my friend Mark Rippon. The man can do a mean highlight and isn’t afraid to tell you how your hair is. Which I like. I don’t want pandering, I want honesty. Oh but do tell me I look spectacular as I leave, honestly or not.

Since then I have had a brow appointment which I managed not to cancel yesterday despite the rain (WaxFX in South Yarra really should be on every girl’s speedial) and the New York manicure that I had at a media day on Monday which was held at Westfield Doncaster’s tricked-up spa, Beaute 2001. Their New York mani may just be my most favourite thing of the moment. Oh, it’s heavenly, they use a spanking new CND formulation which is part polish, part gel. Result?  Endurance plus. Nails are one thing that never go out of my proverbial beauty window, even in the depths of an ice-storm, and I’m telling you my nails are still perfect five days later – and I mean perfect.

The week has also included a leg and bikini wax at the Beauty House in Elwood and a Guinot Hydradermie Facial. Admittedly the facial was because I someone kindly organised it for me; I can’t honestly promise that I’d have left the balmy 23C of my office had it been left up to me to book. But I’m very glad I did. I love a machine in my facial and this legendary pumping facial by Guinot has plenty of mechanical trickery.

At home I’ve had mineral baths to sooth my frazzled brain, Elemis masks (love, love, love), the odd Pantene 3Minute Miracle Treatment. And the running. (note I still have not gone yet)

What a week. Now, as long as no hair grows and my skin and hair stay sane, I’m all set to run into my hubby’s arms like Rachel McAdams in The Notebook.

Thought lusty reunions were easy, fellas? Think again.

6 sleeps and counting…

Sal x

Bloom Organics Certified Organic Rosehip Oil

I have just got to the bottom of my Bloom Organics Rosehip Oil and it felt very much like the other day when I had to say good-bye to my husband at the airport. That is, very sad indeed…

Ok, admittedly, both situations are temporary; my hubby and I will only be apart for a few weeks, and I can, of course, go out and get myself a new bottle of Rosehip Oil. But that’s the way the heart is. It knows what it loves and it sure doesn’t like to go without.

I’ve had love affairs with many a beauty product. Oh yes, it’s got quite obsessive at times. I’ve gone nuts for Elemis body brushes (life changing stuff), mineral makeup (Inika, GloMinerals, Jane Iredale – bring ‘em on, sister), La Mer The Cleansing Fluid (oh lordy…), M.A.C’s Mineralized Skinfinish powders (is it getting hot in here?), Natio Mineral Lipglosses… (Mmmmm)

And that’s just this week.

But I’m well into Rosehip. Like, really.

Facial oils tend to get a bad rap, don’t they? You’re probably sitting there thinking, no way, sunshine, that stuff will turn my skin into an oil-slick quicker than I can say Exxon Valdez. Or perhaps, my makeup will be down around my knees by lunch if I put that slippy stuff on my face – count me out.

But while you may be saying “no thanks” to facial oils, what you really should be saying is “let me at them immediately” because facial oils have this nifty ability to get skin back into balance fast. Got oily skin? A light facial oil like rosehip will actually trick the skin into thinking it’s produced enough oil and quit. Got dry skin? Rosehip will add serious nourisment and get skin back to neutral territory (precisely where you want things to be).

There are other facial oil contenders out there – like jojoba and Evening Primrose.  And they do a very good job; can’t say they don’t. But rosehip gets bonus points for its high Vitamin A and essential fatty acid count, which means this clever little oil is able to exfoliate the skin surface and boost collagen and elastin production. The result? Better texture, fewer lines and some pretty serious brightness. Oh and scars are lessened too. And sun-induced pigmentation.

Natalie Bloom’s new range of Organic products is seriously good – and even more seriously good for you. Just about the whole range is certified organic (not at all easy) and they’re all perfectly packaged in that sweet feminine Bloom-y way that Natalie Bloom does so well.

The only problem I have with the range is that I’m all out.

Dash-it, I’m going to have to brave the single-digit weather to go to Bloom HQ on Chapel Street to get myself some more. Better yet, I might just visit the equally girly online store ( www.bloomcosmetics.com). Much warmer that way.

Is there anything Rosehip can’t do?  Sure, it’s really not much good at washing the dishes or remembering to buy milk on the way home. Other than that, it’s the perfect catch. Much like my man really.

Sal x

Golden girl Marit Bjoergen

I always thought that Alanis Morissette had the definition of “ironic” a bit wrong. ”A black fly in your chardonnay” or “rain on your wedding day” aren’t  really ironic, Alanis. I would categorise them as Just Plain Annoying.

What I do think is ironic is that one of the best ways to get a bikini body is in the snow…

This ground-breaking revelation came to me as I was watching the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics. My husband and I have just got back from skiing in Austria and while we were there it was clear that – particularly with Olympic fever running through the ski town of St Anton - Europeans take their winter sports very seriously indeed. Here’s a travel tip for you: when travelling in Europe, don’t joke about the sport of Curling. Sweeping ice with a kitchen broom is serious business in that part of the world.  

And they're off! This is the start of a 30km classic cross country race at 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympic Games.

Curling aside, when it comes to Winter Olympic sports, none is treated with more reverence than cross country skiing.

Admittedly the European fascination with the sport is probably bestowed for very different reasons than my own. My German is particularly remedial which made deciphering what the Austrian commentators were saying difficult. I assume they were congratulating the cross country atheletes on their slick skiing style, their tremendous skill at staying upright, their fabulous fitness and their impressive power. I, on the other hand, was more interested in how they get their bods looking so smokin’ hot.

The commentators and I are all on the same page in one respect though. This sport, which involves very light skis and lots of Lycra, also requires a tonne of calorie burning.  We’re all very impressed at these cross country skiers’ ability to subject themselves to such obvious physical pain. Very. 

Cross country skiing is regarded as one of the best ways going to nuke calories, and cross country athletes are known to be amongst the fittest people in the world. Why? It’s simple maths; cross country skiing uses both the arms and legs at the same time. Throw a few hills and some tricky turns in there and the body goes into energy-burning overdrive.

Spend a vigorous hour on the langlaufing skis and you can burn around 1000 calories. That’s the equivalent of so many glasses of chardonnay, you won’t even able to see the fly, Alanis. 

And it got me thinking as wave after wave of enviously sublime bodies – both men and women’s – scooted past my television, that this really is the kind of sport a girl should do to get bikini ready. Not only does it give you near superhuman strength (read flat stomach, sculpted arms and a sexy back), it also goes a long way to smooth out those hard-to-tone thighs and bottom. 

15kms down and Marit Bjorgen is still smiling. Gold.

If you want some inspiration Google superstar Marit Bjoergen who won three gold, one silver and a bronze for Norway at the Vancouver Winter Olympics. That’s cross country royalty right there. 

So what I’m thinking is that this winter, instead of sitting on the couch and watching DVDs while we mindlessly scoff down Toblerone (who me?), we should all be getting onto the cross country skis and enjoying  a jump start on the beach look.

Want to give it a go? Mt Buller offers cross country skiing. Check it out here. So does Perisher Blue. See here.

Ok, it’s 30C outside, I know. Perfect chardy weather really. 

Sal xx 

Well, that statement is not always true. There are, of course, some very nice sunny places – like Seychelles. Like Noosa. But right now, on Day Three of my honeymoon in the Swiss mountains with the snow coming down steadily and turning this gingerbread world into an even more magical white land, snow is good. Very good.

Of course, being on one’s honeymoon means that there must have been a wedding. And oh yes, there was. A beautiful magical wedding that will stay with me for life. I will talk about it of course. Soon. But right now I want to talk about the snow. The beautiful snow.

The place: Rougemont. About 8kms from Gstaad, the land of minxy mink coats, blue fox hats (oh I want) and Rolex watches (or Cartier Tanks, or Chanel J12s, or Hermes Cape Cods…). Rougemont is no poor cousin though. Oh no.  Our chalet looks over the church where Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton married. For the second time. Apt I think, that this is where Simon and I are having our honeymoon. I always did love Ms Talyor.

Simon’s best man, Richard said in his speech at our wedding that Simon had a curse on him – that wherever he went, snow would not. Well if that is true, perhaps I am the cure because it has been snowing like crazy and it’s forecast to snow for another week. This makes Simon very happy. Very, very.

My brand new husband is connected to the snow in a way that makes you want to laugh out loud with joy. It’s like watching a child unwrapping a bike on Christmas day. He loves it and I don’t think it would be wrong to say that he needs it. He needs it like people need a holiday in the sun. I love him even more when we’re in the snow, he has as lightness about him.

Especially when the skiing is so good.

When I first met Simon I couldn’t understand the facsination with skiing. It’s cold, you have to work hard and there is no real need for a bikini. But over the years I have known him, I’ve fallen in love with this sport. Sport? Love ? Me? Well yes, strange as it seems, it appears that I have not only fallen for the man,  I’ve fallen for his sport too.

That’s not to say though that I always possess skiing finesse. Oh no. Like any relationship, with the highs, there also comes the stacks. And yes, tears aplenty.

But, the past two days I have skied pretty well for me. I think all those weekends in Buller’s sludgy, obstacle-riddled terrain has paid off. I am a determined girl but I do owe most of my skiing ability (when it comes) to Simon. And he agrees with me. On day one he proclaimed that he deserves some kind of recognition for bringing a complete novice to skiing competency in only two years – or, if we’re talking seasons, four.

Of course, being good on the groomed runs is not enough. There is now off piste powder to be conquered! So I remain in constant tuition. I have never seen, let alone skied, powder before so this type of skiing is a brave new and very frustrating world. I have already head planted twice and breathed in snow through both my nostrils and mouth simultaneously – not something I would recommend…

And here we are: the morning of day three. And it continues to snow. There will be powder everywhere Simon tells me (”An epic day, Sal”). I may head plant some more but I don’t care. Even if there are tears (mine), there will be smiles too (both of ours). So much beauty makes it hard to be sad for more than the time it takes to get both skis back on and say, “ok, lets go.”

Til next time,

Sal x

Kore, that's pretty...

Welcome to the world of beauty journalism…

It was backstage at an Alex Perry show at the Rosemount Sydney Fashion Festival. I’d shown up for my (most probably unscheduled) interview and Miranda had her eyes shut so that the doating makeup artist hovering above her face could paint on an alarming amount of blue glitter. There was so much of the heavy metal (and, yikes, glue) going onto her lids that I was worried they might stay closed permenantly. 

Admittedly the fear was fleeting. I was playing the role of stressed-out reporter rather finely and didn’t have time to worry about her peepers. Course not. This was one of those fly-by-the-seat-of your-pants kind of stories that happen at fashion shows and I had an editor waiting back at the office for anwsers and a scary blank space in her layout. So I plowed on; Ms Kerr’s eyes firmly shut.  

The reason I’m telling this tale is becasue I’ve just come across this rather saucy shoot with Miranda looking hot-to-trot on the beach of Necker Island. It was shot just the other day for the Victoria Secret 2010 Swimsuit Catalogue.  

Here it is (don’t say I don’t share)

Miranda swanning it on the beach

Yes, yes, she’s hot-as. But I still haven’t got to the bit about the hand holding… (what? want to watch the vid again, well ok, then we’ll get back to the story.)

Ready? When Miranda was finally given permission by the makeup artist to open her eyes (the interview had gone rather well up until this time, thanks for asking), Miranda’s amazing blue eyes sprang open and with that huge dimpled smile she’s so famed for said, “Hi!” while grabbing my hand as if I was, in fact, the very person she was wanting to see all along.

I have to say the girl is good – and even more gorgeous with her eyes open. But she is also sweet in the kind of way that you don’t expect from a superstar model. So I’d like to put it on the record; the girl is kinda, really nice.

And healthy. Blimey, just looking at her glowing skin is enough to make a girl want to kick her daily cappuccinos. Her secret is yoga and acai berries. Both. Lots. But Miranda has made it easier for non-yogis who like a glass of pinot every now and then with her new skincare label, Kora by Miranda Kerr. Check it out here. It’s organic, full of goodness, and really very nice to look at.

Kinda like Miranda. 

Til next time,

Sally  

Fat. These days it’s practically a dirty word (particularly if it preceeds words like “butt” and “thighs”). But there is one body part that fat works particularly well for: eyebrows.

Well sure, ”shapely” is probably a better term for the kind of brows I’m taking about (gaze at Megan Fox’s thick, shapely brows for inspiration) but because there are still women out there who seem to want to pluck their brows into oblivion, “fat” I think gets the message across more, well ok, bluntly.

If you’ve just furtively picked up the compact mirror beside your desk to check on your own brows and have discovered that they’re, um, missing, take note of these (just now created) brow commandments.

Rule #1. Throw away the tweezers. And I mean throw them. Judging by your malnourished brows, you obviously can’t be trusted with such fun beauty instruments.  So chuck. Now.

Rule #2. Wait… (and then wait some more.) It could take anywhere between six to twelve months to get your brows to grow back to their former sexy archiness.  

Here's the Benefit Brow Bar in Myer

Rule #3. Seek professional advice.

Now that your tweezers are contributing to the landfill, a pro is required to keep things looking good. You know, neat. Tell your brow professional that you’re doing your darndest to grow ‘em back and you just need some help with shape while you play the waiting game.

My new favourite brow spot is WaxFx in South Yarra Melbourne. But you could also go to Carmen the Eyebrow Queen (read more about her here); the Benefit Brow Bars in both Sydney and Melbourne rock too (read more about them here); or check out The Brow Bar in Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane here. Then there is Arch Enemy Eyebrows By Afnaan in Melbourne’s CBD and Sharon Lee in both Sydney and Melbourne – they’re lorded as two of the best around but you should expect to flex the plastic. 

Clarins Pro Palette Eyebrow Kit. You'll be like a Girl Scout with this all-in-one kit.

Rule #4. Invest in a brow wax and pencil (and maybe add gel to that list too). Brow kits are everywhere these days so no excuses. For a good all-rounder kit, look to brands like Laura Mercier, her new Brow Kit contains a very good brow definer in three shades, a brow definer brush and Laura Mercier’s famed tweezers. Or go for the new Clarins Eyebrow Kit, which contains a flattering highlighter eye shadow, a great brow wax, 3 brow shades for blending and cute mini tools. At the moment I’m using Benefit Brow Zings, which has a great light shade that is a perfect match to my fairer brows. Other brands you should seek - Bloom for her brow gel, M.A.C for their brushes and Smashbox for its great brow wax.

 Minxy brows. Minxier you. Who doesn’t want that?

Sal x  

“Soon you’re going to be my auntie; I reckon that makes you sound really old…”

You know, before Sunday last weekend I’d never thought about the fact that I’m about to become an auntie to three boys and two girls.

It came about when my fiance’s nine year-old nephew realised that I was going to be his auntie – a revelation that he found hilarious. No, not excellent that he was getting me as part of his family. Not ace that he was going to have such a fun gal around for life.  No, just hilarious that it made me sound so well, ok, ancient.

I’m getting married in two months and it’s only just starting to dawn on me that I’m no longer the youngest generation out there – that there are others coming up under me. That there are people out there who were born this century and they’re old enough to work out family relations and say things like ”auntie” and “old”.

Admittedly this shouldn’t be a surprise seeing as my soon-to-be-husband will celebrate his 40th birthday only weeks after we get back from our honeymoon, but somehow it still comes as a bit of a shock.

Like, where did all the time go?

Add to this the fact that my sister is about to have a baby and it’s hard to pretend that I’m not, you know, sixteen (or, um, even 26) anymore.

Still the age thing is confusing becasue I went out to lunch yesterday with a girlfriend and we dedicated at least thirty minutes to talking about Britney Spears. Margaret (or Marj as I like to call her) and my other friend Caroline had gone to Britney’s Circus Tour in Sydney last week – not once, but twice.

Far from being disappointed by all those lip-synching critisisms, Marj (a self-confessed diehard Britney Spears fan) was in raptures. “Anyone who complains about Britney is an ignorant fool,” she told me. “I mean everyone knows the girl lip-syncs. It’s about the show, not her singing – that’s why it’s called The Circus Starring Britney Spears… Anyway, I don’t want my favourite Britney songs ruined by giving Brit the mike.”  

Britney Spears keeps her fans happy with note-perfect songs by pressing the play button on her Circus album. Still we love her.

The fact that a fan like Marj realises that if Britney’s mike was turned up, the concert would be a laughable mess does say something of Britney’s performing abilities. But perhaps it also says something about us too. No, we may not be sixteen anymore  – and yes, I may be about to inherit a niece who is in university, and yes, Marj has inherited actual children through her marriage – but we still have the ability to talk like we have maths homework in our bags, not stock market reports (oh sorry didn’t I mention, Marj has a high powered job working the stock market Index. The girl’s no slouch.).

Not that I can talk. On the same night that Marj and Caroline went to see Britney, I did my best to look suitably grunge (those who know me will find this particularly hard to imagine) before catching the tram to Etihad Stadium in Melbourne to see Pearl Jam.

I love pop as much as the next girl but I do admit to being a long-time closet fan of this grungy band which clearly doesn’t give a hoot about costumes or back up dancers. Flannel is still a viable option for these guys. And for a girl who is constantly worrying about what to wear, this anti-fashion stance is kinda refreshing.

Still I keep my fan-status quiet because the girls at BAZAAR or Primped would never understand - neither do friends like Marj and Caroline for that matter. Still I’ve loved Pearl Jam since I was 17, and old flames, as we all know, are hard to let go of.

Eddie may not have 37 costume changes like Britney does, but boy the man can sing.

Unlike Britney’s audience, the average age in the audience at Pearl Jam was (relievingly) around the 30-40 mark. But there were definitely kids there that would have been in nappies while I, as besotted teen, stood in thigh-deep mud amongst a swam of hot and sticky people at the band’s first concert back in 1995. 

The concert was at Eastern Creek in outer Sydney (a particularly hardcore place that I have no desire to go back to ever again), I was on my P-plates and wore my Dr Martins and bootcut Levis with naive girlie attitude. Am I feeling old much? Well yes, but last friday night, I also felt very, well, cool… Like someone who’s experienced Woodstock. Like someone with wisdom. I wore my ”Yeah-I-saw-the-Jam’s-first-concert-back-in-’95″ attitude with the same pride an experienced rocker wears his old concert tour t’shirts. 

(fyi, Dr Martins and bootcut Levis were replaced with very now gladiator flats, minxy racer-back top and silky shorts.)   

Does a grown woman woop at a concert? Well, apparently so. And it begs the question. When do we feel the age we really are? The age a nine year-old sees us as. Perhaps it’s child birth that makes a girl feel like a woman. Perhaps labour is the final frontier to maturity. 

Maybe. But then I know a fair few mothers who will still happily move the furniture in the living room in order to dance to their favourite pop queen.

Or in my case, play air guitar…

Sal x  

Clearly I’m made of weaker stuff than Jess because I’d be worrying about running out of food and water. I’d fret about sharks and storms (hasn’t she seen The Perfect Storm?) or mad men getting onto my boat and trying to kill me (perhaps she’s too young to have been scared senseless watching Nicole Kidman being terrorised in Deadcalm…). I’d miss my bed and my shower and having the ability to walk on solid ground.

It’s just that sitting (and surviving) on my own in a little boat out on the big, big ocean seems like a very, well, big deal. My kind of endurance is more likely to come in the form of marathon stints in 4 inch heels. Spending forteen hours on the balls of your feet is painful yes, but at least it’s not likely to end in scurvy.

By the end of the day I find myself speed dialing friends, phoning my fiance to ask him when he’s coming home, checking the gym timetable for spinning classes, making dinner reservations, laughing, crying. All at the same time.

So the fact that Jess has been on her little boat for 537 days (ok, slight exaggeration) is a marvel in itself. How Zen must she be to be able to hang out on her own. Enjoy her own company.  

Last Friday night, after a week of deadlines that left me no time to get to a professional spray tan appointment before Derby Day (read: panic), I decided to DIY. And seeing as A-listers like Cameron Diaz, Penelope Cruz and Hillary Swank all use the stuff, I felt I was amongst good company as I foamed up.

We’ve all seen the scary results of a tan gone-wrong (and never more so at the races). Streaks, blotches, brown hands, orange heels, white patches…it’s enough to put you off doing your own tan at home all summer. But I have to say this foam formulation is pretty easy to use. The tint makes sure you apply evenly (if you’re like me and have been emotionally scarred by transparent spray-on versions, this will be good news) and the blendability is, despite the foam, great.

After applying I didn’t feel sticky in the least (good) and my fiance didn’t say anything about the smell (excellent). And come Derby Day morning, my skin was a soft golden colour. Certainly nothing to attract comments such as “been to Bali last night?” but definitely enough to make me feel more confident in my Lisa Ho shift. Admittedly, if I’d been planning for a pool party (and had another day up my sleeve), I may have added another layer to deepen the shade – this is quite possibly because I’m used to the fuller colour of a professional spray – but well, it is spring afterall… 

Looking for a bit of DIY colour? If you can forget about all the, err, well, trashy pics on the California Tan site (www.californiatan.com) you’ll find this tanner delivers a very classy looking tan. Want proof? Another California Tan fan is our own Toni Collette.

Click on the below link to check her out looking all golden and amazing at the Golden Globes as she accepts her Emmy for lead actress in a comedy series. (She beat comedy veteran Christina Applegate and Queen of Comedy Tina Fey. Go girl.) Here it is: A golden girl winning a golden lady… 

Til next time,

Sal x

Judging the fashions on Caulfield Cup Day is not a bad way to spend a Saturday. Everyone puts some effort into their outfit, everyone’s happy, everyone’s excited. And on-stage, there were some well dressed lasses, even if the cold weather did seem to bring out a more sombre colour palette. 

In the first heat I judged I’m a bit embarrassed to say we chose three finalists who were all wearing black – not very races in my book but frankly there wasn’t any colour to choose from.

Here’s a pic of the finalists

The next heat I have no photographic evidence of becasue a. my photographer (a.k.a fiance) wasn’t there to pick up the slack, and b. I was hobnobbing it with my fellow judges, milliner Peter Jago and Melbourne jeweller, Adrian Lewis – two very lovely gentlemen who were my firm friends by the time heat 9 was over with.

In that next heat there was a little less black. We did manage to get a very sweet looking thing in an emerald flapper-esque dress into the finals and a girl in grey and peach, which was more in-tune with spring, into the lineup – but from my chair I still found there were a few too many inky looks for spring.

We want COLOUR… Spring is about flowers and sunshine (I know, we don’t always get it here in Melbourne) and tweeting birds and champagne and smoke salmon on little toasts and FUN… That’s what it’s about. Fun. We’ve had the misery of winter, we’re like, done with it. Now’s the moment to get into the swing of spring tones.

Take Nereda Blake. She’s one of Caulfield Spring Racing Style Ambassadors this year. Here she is with a particularly heavy piece of hardware on her head made by Peter Jago (the fella in the top hat)…

There's Peter proudly watching on

And Face of Caulfield Rebecca Warren is another girl who knows how to do colour. Here she is in a Paul & Joe one shouldered number, which she told me is from David Jones. Now there’s a dress built for spring…

note the shoes...they're by Mimco. And I have to say, hot...

Rebecca had many official duties to do on Caulfield Cup – things like carry the Cup around the track in the back of a BMW and hand it to the winner. It’s all in a day’s work for the lovely Rebecca but it does mean she has to dash off while the rest of us have fun in the Pegasus tent. While she was away doing Face of Caulfieldy things, I got chatting to her BF Nathan. Now I’m not one to bet the house on a horse, or even, you know twenty bucks (mostly because haven’t the first clue about talking to those scary people behind the betting machines), but I’m also not very good at missing out on things either. So when Nathan told me he was betting horses 2,4 and 5 in the 7th race, I, like a little duckling, followed suit.

And what do you know, we won. Wootwoot!!