I am not a gambling man. The whole betting kerfuffle has simply never appealed. Watching a football, or rugby or cricket, match – these are my three favourite sports – for the entertainment, joy and excitement they bring me is what I enjoy. Cheering my team(s) to victory gives me enough of a kick. I’m not interested in winning a few quid on the result of a game. Plus, I’m too tight and the prospect of (almost inevitably) losing money gives me palpitations. I’d much rather spend those pounds on a new book to read.

Also, the terminology around betting “odds” is a foreign language to me. I’m old enough to have taken Latin classes at school – which I was rubbish at – but, even all these years later, “cogito, ergo sum” * makes more sense to me than “11/2” **. I don’t even bet on the Grand National as so many “once-a-year” gamblers across our nation do.

As I write the above words, I come to the realisation that I sound quite grumpy and boring and penny-pinching. I’m not ***– well, no more than the average chap – but gambling is one of those activities which, aside from the multitude of adverts, apps and shirt sponsorship and celebrity endorsements that your average sports fan just cannot avoid, I take no interest in.

My disinterest in betting is a very good thing for Sarah and our four cold-averse mutts. Because, if I were a gambler, I would have lost our house. Why? I hear you shout. Why, Gavin? Pray tell.

Well, you may think me daft. I think myself daft for this, so don’t feel bad if you agree. You see, I was 100% convinced I knew the capital of Switzerland. I mean, who doesn’t know the capital cities of all our European friends? Me, it seems.

So sure and firm was I in the belief I knew the correct answer that – were a gambling man – I would have confidently put my house on the line. I would have lost it, of course, because, as everybody in their right mind knows, the Swiss capital is Bern. And not Geneva as I thought. In the interests of being “transparent” and open (because that’s all the rage these days) I was dithering between Geneva or Zürich as the answer.

Thankfully we still have a roof over our heads. The dogs are pleased because they don’t have to sit in the rain with little hand-written cards around their necks beseeching passers-by to feed them scraps because their daddy was a dick who lost everything. And Sarah is happy because she hasn’t had to bury me in a shallow grave in the garden. That discovery would have come as a surprise to the new owners once they started with their spring planting.

Whatever the capital of Switzerland may be; Geneva, Bern or Zürich, (IT’S BERN! I KNOW NOW. STOP HITTING ME), Liam and I will be paying it a visit as part of our adventure this summer.

And it is a train from Bern that I will be booking later this very day. Or, rather, Liam the Official Purveyor of Tickets and the Organiser of Travel Planning, will be booking them once he’s back from his day shift. It seems I am not to be trusted with these important matters. Bethany and Sarah worry I’d book the wrong date – done that before – or the wrong journey.

 * “I think, therefore I am.”

** I haven’t the foggiest.

*** Obviously, I am a tad grumpy. Hence, GrumpPa.