I suppose of all the places a new venture could begin there are worse ones than Doncaster, particularly as it doesn't mean a near four-hour commute from my house (that will come next week) and I'm on familiar territory, writes David Massey. St Leger Day almost didn't happen, with the morning drive to the track narrowly averting disaster as I fail to spot a flotilla of police motorbikes and Range Rovers tracking up the outside line of the M18, and I just barely avoid absent-mindedly pulling out in front of them as I try and change the station on the radio. As it turns out, this won't be the last time I find myself just in front of the Prime Minister (for it was he) on the day.

I'm with new work partner Vicki today, who has parents that live nearby and, God bless her mum, she's made me a cheese sandwich with a bag of cheese and onion crisps as an accompaniment. I am delighted to report the sandwich was delicious. Mums, eh? I miss mine, but I think I've found a spirit one with Vicki's as that's exactly the sort of thing mine would have done. "You don't need to, Mum, there will be food there." "Well, I've done you a pack-up now anyway. You never know." And even though you do know, you take the sandwich, and it's brilliant.

So anyway, Doncaster is packed with racegoers, which is good, but it does mean our route down to the parade ring from the press room (which is up top) is hard to navigate. We decide a better option is to go the back way, down the stairs, and come out by the weighing room. This works well for much of the afternoon, until the Leger comes around. We want to head to the pre-parade ring but for some reason we can't turn left, the route totally fenced off, and we have to head between the cordon to the parade ring. Everyone is crowding around the barriers as if they're waiting for someone. Imagine their disappointment as Vicki and myself loom into view. It's at this point I realise the PM is probably about thirty seconds behind me, as there are security men surrounding us. "Keep walking, and don't look back!" I shout to Vicki, just behind me. Sure enough, it's not long after we enter the parade ring that Sir Keir makes his appearance. I'm only glad that we didn't get booed as well.

Vicki is on her own on the Sunday at Doncaster. I warn her early there may be a few drops of rain, but not much. I lose count of the number of photos she sends me throughout the day of her in her transparent waterproof poncho, looking more miserable in each one as the day passes, as my weather forecasting skills prove about as accurate as my race-reading ones. I don't think sending her a photo of the roast dinner I'd made for me and the good lady helped matters, either. Still, I was at Leicester on the Monday before and it threw it down all day there when it wasn't supposed to, so let's call it a soggy score-draw on the week and move on.

And so to Yarmouth and the Eastern Festival. All sounds very exotic, doesn't it: an Eastern Festival? Those of a certain age will be reminded of Turkish Delight at this point. I'm reminded exactly how exotic things will be when I swing onto the Road To Kings Lynn (one of Bing and Bob's lesser-known adventures) and a whopping great potato lorry pulls out in front of me. Game over. Just sit tight and enjoy the finest flat scenery Lincolnshire has to offer for the next forty miles. Sadly, the African Violet Centre is still closed. There will be no streptococcus for me this year.

There will, however, be the more common Mcdonaldsus Drivethru'us on the way. As I arrive, the queue in front of me is one car. In the three minutes it takes to get my food, a dozen cars pile in behind me. I take this as a good sign and one that says luck will be on my side this week. I get back on the main road just as another potato wagon pulls in front of me, the good fortune lasting all of thirty seconds.

I'm in my usual B&B at Yarmouth and so are all the others that stayed there last year. It's like time hasn't moved on at all. Which seems appropriate, as there are parts of the town that don't feel like they have evolved much either, probably for about fifty years. Yarmouth is what it is, but it's badly in need of some modernisation. Even Skeggy has upgraded, for crying out loud.

I'll be at the dogs Monday night (I always go early) and Wednesday night and, on Tuesday, I have a meal with Arthur Cooper and Vicki to discuss further business. Many of you will recognise Arthur's Aussie tones - he commentates on the French racing for Sky on occasions - and he has tales to tell, and racing politics to discuss. We put the racing world to rights over a sticky toffee pudding, which is how it should be. It's a pleasure chatting to him, and I look forward to our next meet.

Tuesday's card is probably the least interesting of the three days. The weather is kind, more so than the results, which are a disaster for bookmakers. Yarmouth is a strong ring too - shop around and you'll be betting to less than one percent a runner. The stretchers are out for the books as the fourth favourite on the bounce goes in mid-afternoon. Trade at Fallen Angels could well see a downturn this year. (Google it, this is a family column.)

Vicki is with me on the Wednesday and I introduce her to the bookmaker who goes by the name of Billy Bongo. Vicki has already asked if that's his real name, which caused much mirth. She's disappointed to find out he's actually called Simon, but when I tell her his surname is "Pieman", it takes her a minute to decide that that's also bull. I give her a little quiz on bookies' names and whether they are real or fake, which she fails badly. She has a lot to learn about the layers, although I notice she has her favourites she likes to deal with. They tend to be the younger, better-looking ones. I shall leave it up to you, dear reader, to decide whether this is purely coincidental or not.

It's the East Anglian Derby at the dogs on the Wednesday night and the place is heaving. Luckily I'm on a table upstairs and have Viv Stingray (also not her real name) with us. Viv works at Southwell and has never been to the dogs before. This means I can easily impress her with my limited dog knowledge but by the end of the night she's a convert, even watching old vids of Scurlogue Champ on YouTube, and of course, loving them. How could you not? He's still the most amazing dog I'll ever clap eyes on. (If you've not watched the recordings or heard of him before, go and have a look. And be amazed.) Viv has already decided she's coming again next year.

Thursday, and the 3lb I lost weight-wise last week is all put back on with the final cooked breakfast of the trip. I tell myself I'll be back on the Ryvita tomorrow as I tuck into a third rasher. My luck this week hasn't been so great and I'm down so far, but a decent bet on Redorange at 3-1 helps the bank balance bounce back a bit. At least it's stayed dry this year, if windy. The drive back is a better one than the one coming down; no 'tater wagons on the route at 7pm, see? One last McDonald's for the road, and I'm home for half nine. I've an email when I get back asking me for a ten-to-follow for the jumps season. I've enjoyed the Flat this year but, I have to say, I can't wait to get stuck into the timber-toppers this time around. Especially now I'll actually be able to see them in the flesh rather than just viewing them going to post from the rails. An exciting winter lies ahead...

- DM