The Rest

After having lived in Singapore for a year, I became homesick for the taste of red licorice and the smell of horses.
Not just any horses, but the big glossy neurotic prima donnas with hooves that can shoot out to remove your kneecap with surgical precision if you don't watch out for the tilt of their ear. The bigger, glossier and faster, the better.
I contacted a trainer out of the track at Bukhit Timah, and he was kind enough to allow me to come with a camera for the morning gallop.
All tracks have tight security, but I didn't realise I would have to leave photo ID. All I had in my pocket was a Mastercard, which they grudgingly accepted. Restrictions meant I couldn't hang over the rail as I had wanted, so the pictures were slightly blurred. I did get some better shots for the purpose of drawing, but after a few hours, the bogus-artistic black turtleneck I was wearing had turned into a fibreglass cocoon, so I left while I was still standing.
When I developed the pictures, I phoned the trainer to get his address, but his secretary hung up when I called. After trying several times, getting the same response, I gave up and mailed them to the steward at the track.
A few days later, the Straits Times had an article about a doping scandal in the stables on the day I had been there. Senveral trainers were being investigated, but there was no mention of a tall sweaty foreigner camouflaged as Cato lurking around the stables.
The trainer did phone weeks later to apologise, and I sent him a photo of the drawing I had made of his favourite colt (sketch below).
"Lah" he said, "Where's the rest of him?"