By Trevor Davis -

I started and I couldn't stop. Down the Stow on a Tuesday night, Wimbledon on Fridays, and I used to pop over to Catford most Saturdays until it was closed down – now Dogford cats, that was a track – the smell of the burgers, the sweet south London air on a November evening, having a flutter with your mates, that was pure heaven.

It was a good seven years we were together, Susie, and I - Sleep Around Susie would have been her name has she been a greyhound. We met at work, enjoyed drinks on a Friday night and, a year after meeting, rented a flat in Camberwell.

Turning 30 and suddenly on your own was a sorry predicament to be in and it didn't help matters that I didn’t know the first thing about women - the only one I properly knew was the bloody one who been knocking around with Battersea Bert for the past year and a half.

So I went dog racing, sometimes on my own, sometimes with my mates and I loved it and I've been loving it for the past ten years.

There's been a few conquests in between of course, mainly regrettable encounters as a result of a few too many Shandy Basses on a race night.

Julie was the first one I really took a shine to after the break up, always wore a red jacket. She was something else. Romford Julie I called here, used to work down at the track on a Saturday night, behind the bar. Well, she was a leggy animal. Quick out the traps, if you know what I mean. *

And I'll never forget Polly Go Lightly. First saw her down in Brighton on a stag night and it was love at first sight – lovely form. She beat Captain Canary by a length and I won £80 – drinks all round!

But what kind of a woman do I want now? Do I want to return to my life in the early nineties with relentless nights together watching the television, washing up half arsed dinners and arguing because I forgot to get the milk? Do I want to be holed up indoors when I could be down the track, studying the form, having a little bet on the 8.15, soaking up the atmosphere, hearing the paws of the greyhounds as they charge round the first bend, watching as number six makes a last gasp charge for the line to haul in his chums? You bet I do.

I would happily never see another greyhound in my life if I could find the right woman. A woman who I could sit with and watch dire TV, who would wash up my half-arsed meals and who would get in a huff because I forgot to get four pints of semi-skimmed in – now that's what I want.

I've always been good at backing winners on the track, but put me in the company of women and I'm a dead loss. I think it's about time my luck changed.

* If you know what I mean you're a better man than I.