All roads lead south on Wednesday to the Cheltenham Countdown event.

I just hope I've won it by the conundrum as I haven't got one of those right yet.

The weights for the Festival handicaps are unveiled, the serious punters dash for the doors to pour over them. The rest of us run to the buffet.

Last year I nearly missed it. A video feature on the redesigned second last fence meant I was out on the course when the starters were served.

Thundering up the hill in sectionals not seen since Istabraq's third Champion Hurdle, I was back for dessert.

The profiteroles were decimated. It was like a scene from Platoon. Still there was still three cream puffs for me to enjoy. The injustice burned deep.

Now I can't see any reason why I need to hit the course tomorrow - unless the threat of yellow grass has materialised.

I will be interested in the handicap weights though. Alan King's positive vibes for Pennek in the Pertemps Final are still with me - while one or two shrewd judges keep mentioning Synchronised for the same race. The first exacta of the week is already taking shape.

Sadly so are the familiar problems.

The shoes that began to let in water in France have now collapsed so a new pair will be purchased at the weekend. That gives me a week to break them in or face the swollen balls agony of 1996 in which my hobble was misdiagnosed as a victory jig after Indefence's Supreme Novices' Hurdle win.

I've never danced on a racecourse, even Bjorn Again could only muster a violent foot tap at York two years ago.

But if Pennek beats Synchronised in two weeks' time I could crack. I have variety of moves available at any moment but my default one is the moonwalk.

It isn't rhythmic, it isn't pretty, but like three profiteroles on an empty stomach, it does the job.