A sleepless, restless night. Nina blamed the Chicken Tikka Masala but I knew better. Pre-Festival nerves.

I should recognise the symptoms by now. The cold sweats, leg trembles, panic attacks over clothes and money.

This is my 20th Festival. It may as well be my first.

Over the years I've seen the likes of Danoli raise the roof by winning the Royal & SunAlliance Hurdle, my first taste of what it means when the Irish banker goes in.

Istabraq thundered up the hill four times, three of which brought him Champion Hurdles. Each occasion is filed away in the 'I Can Say I Was There' folder.

Best Mate's three Gold Cups, Inglis Drever's three World Hurdles, Viking Flagship, Travado and Deep Sensation leaving the ground at the exact same moment at the last in the Champion Chase.

The inevitably of Unsinkable Boxer and Blowing Wind landing major gambles for a Martin Pipe-Tony McCoy axis at the peak of their collective powers.

The majestic Moscow Flyer, Master Minded threatening to raise the bar even higher last year and Baracouda delivering for France.

Then there's the golden Thursday afternoon back in 2000 when Bacchanal, Looks Like Trouble, Stormyfairweather and Master Tern made the game look easy. It remains my only winning Festival.

Off the track there's the craic. The 'Foster And Allen'-style Irish folk combo in the back room of the Prince Of Wales who brought the house down with 'Red Rose Café'

Herbie, the first landlord ever to put a roof over my head at Cheltenham, insisting I drink Cider with Gin in it - for no other reason than "it makes you mad".

Sleeping on a bowling alley in the St James's Hotel with only the sink in the ladies to freshen up for seven rotund northern chaps.

The glory years in the Corner Cupboard in Winchombe, the three nights of bed sharing in a two-storey bungalow (house) in Bishops Cleeve, now the exotic delights of Evesham.

Of pre-Festival trips to France to see Kasbah Bliss, to County Durham to see Inglis Drever and sink my spoon into the best crème brulee I've ever encountered.

Visiting Henrietta Knight's to see Best Mate before his third Gold Cup and knocking back a beef and horseradish sandwich to die for.

The sea fret and monsoon like conditions of Watchit for a trip to Philip Hobbs, they all come flooding back to you.

That's why I can't sleep, can't wait for tomorrow.

Although on second thoughts the Tikka Massala was three days past it's sell-by date...