Kirsty Stanley-Hughes

Is it just me or do you remember what you ate at Royal Ascot almost as much as the horses who won? The pre-match picnics and asparagus rolled in soggy brown bread, picking flies out of warm Champagne, dribbling mint-choc-chip down a once-a-year waistcoat and forgetting about it until the following June, smuggling yourself into a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend's box in time for a swollen-footed tea, then ricocheting across Car Park One from gazebo to car-boot for ever more misguided imbibements; and, eventually, the agonising walk into a service station on the...