THURSDAY evening. Cold, wet, and getting wetter. I don't need permission to go to the pub to put my tips in because the Handicapper and Theo are visiting family in Queensland. Don't get me wrong, I am missing them, but bless me father I have to confess that the prospect of not tending to every need of a nine-month-old (and a 30something-year-old) has some appeal.

At the North Fitzroy Arms the grey-haired wits, some of whom have been educated in the finest Catholic schools of Melbourne, are gathered around the fire. Jimmy has, as always, managed to angle himself between runners, and has prime position. As I put in our tips Max asks who I'm going to the footy with this weekend.

"I've organised to go with the Pope," I say, "to North and Collingwood."

"Ooooooo," the boys chorus, shaking their heads in unison like altar boys.

"Hard work: the Pope," says Max. "Drinks crme de menthe. Imagine what a plastic cup of crme de menthe costs at Telstra."

"Friday match?" asks Jim.

"Yes," I say.

"Very ordinary fish at the Dome," says Jim.

The boys will get stuck in to anyone and everyone who bobs up on the news but I thought the Pope might be one of theirs. We listen.

"Sounds more like a physicist than a Pope," Kev says.

Max gathers momentum. "Average Pope, The Rat," he says. "Actually, very average Catholic. If he was a proper Catholic he wouldn't be at Randwick on Saturday, he'd be at Rosehill, penciling for his cousin."

The proposition wins some support.

On the walk home I decide to cancel. While I'm watching the British Open that night I ring the Vatican. Not sure whether they got my message.

Friday. Colder. Wetter. Very happy with my decision to stay at home. I ring the Handicapper to register the number of hours I've put in at the computer (punting on Betfair), to assure her that my diet in her absence has contained at least three of the vital food groups (crumbs, bubbles and chocolate) and that I have been getting heaps of exercise (ordering pizza and pulling the corks from bottles). I say goodnight to the family.

I light the fire, saving the form guide. I turn on 774. I open a bottle of red. I find the remote (takes me half of the first quarter of the North match to find it under the newspapers). I get the laptop. The phone. And I take up the position.

The couch. Tim Lane calling the footy. My choice of the British Open, the Test from England, the Tour de France and the Moonee Valley trots. Fire raging. This is heaven. I feel a bit guilty. I hope the Pope isn't wandering around the concourse on the wing at Docklands.

The Pies scrap with North. At least the roof is on at the Dome. They were wishing there was one at Royal Birkdale where no dogs can be observed on chains. Greg Norman is hanging in there. Remarkable. I contemplate the fitness regime of major-winner Angel Cabrera, my sort of sportsman.

The Pies lead but during the third quarter you can sense from the call that the Roos are getting on top. Sounds like Boomer Harvey is at his evasive best. The South Africans are plodding. I do my lolly laying the fave, Miss Hazel, in the sixth (thought Heez Running Holme was better than that). North hit the front. Rocco Mediate's swing reminds me of a knee with no ligaments.

When I realise it's going to be an exciting finish I turn the radio off, to save myself for Bruce and Dennis and Bucks. The potential misery of Collingwood reminds me that arch-Pie fan Michaela has given me some of her home-made quince paste. So I make myself a cheese platter (actually, I unwrap the brie) and cut some mettwurst. (Which reminds me that the Pope hasn't called.)

More red, and I can't nail a winner at the red hots, but the golf is getting even more interesting. Peter Alliss is full of philosophy, especially when Norman nearly putts off the 18th green, embarrassingly, then holes the 20-footer coming back. "What a silly, silly game," he says.

Another red and the quince paste is delicious, although I don't remember quince paste being so gelatinous or rubbery. But it tastes the same. Another red and the last quarter is now on the tele. Tim Lane was right: Daniel Wells does look like Alberto Juanterena. And no one's picking him up. But Campbell's even quicker. And the Roos are home.

I think I've fallen asleep on the couch because the shadows at Royal Birkdale are long, my neck is stiff, the bottle is empty, I'm dollars down, my throat is sore, and I'm wondering where the Pope is.

I love it when there's no one to tell me to go to bed.