I can't say I spotted her at the time, but I reckon the Good Luck Fairy must have been at Senior Son's Christening.

Or maybe he was just born lucky - otherwise known as dead jammy. Tempting fate here, I know, but Friday the 13th holds no fears for him. He is, for instance, the only one of our family to win £100 on the Premium Bonds. He has had 25 bonds for 18 years, I have had hundreds for nearly half a century. See what I mean?

In the days when we sat round the table and had great family tournaments of Snakes and Ladders, Monopoly, Subbuteo or Cluedo, he won far more often than anyone else.

(Cheating? Cheating? How could you even begin to think such a thing.)

Smaller Son, unable to compete against one on whom Fortune so clearly smiled so excessively, was occasionally known to tip the Monopoly board up and send the houses and hotels scattering all over the room to be found, years later, in the log basket or behind the dresser. Frankly, I didn't blame him. As one of life's perpetual losers, quite often I felt like doing exactly the same thing.

For Senior Son, tombola or raffle tickets aren't a gamble, they're an investment. Years ago, he pedalled off to some fund raising event - a Blue Peter sale I think - in the next village. An hour later he pedalled home again laden down with trophies. There were carrier bags dangling from the handlebars, full of bars of chocolate, smelly soap, bags of sweets, and Marks & Spencer scented drawer liners.

Some days later, I met the organiser in the village shop. "I have never met anyone, anyone, as lucky as your son." she said.

Certainly not his uncle, who's a bit of a betting man and the bookie's friend. There was once a horse running at Sedgfield that shared Senior's Son nickname. His Uncle David generously put a fiver on it and promised Senior Son the winnings. It won of course. His uncle forwarded the dosh, but, not having Senior Son's luck, hadn't actually bet on it himself....

Which brings us to the Grand National. You know you're getting old when you're asking your son to put your bets on. Anyway, for most of the family at least, it's our only flutter of the year and Senior Son was deputed to place the bets. In time honoured fashion we each had a couple of quid each way on a favourite and an outsider.

Smaller Son and I watched the race on television. Neither of my horses even got a mention. For all I know they didn't even turn up, went somewhere else, had a nice lie down in a paddock somewhere to stop themselves getting muddy. Smaller Son's were both mentioned once, largely because they fell down pretty quickly.

I knew Senior Son was backing Beau - which lasted longer than most. "I wonder which was his other horse." I said as the race seemed to be down to just two. Silly question. As soon as Red Marauder crossed the line, the phone rang. Senior Son was on the other end, exultant. Four horses finish out of 40 and of course he has to have the 33-1 winner. I try to tell him betting's a mug's game, but with his luck, I'm not so sure. Maybe I'll get him to buy my Lottery tickets...

Published: Friday, April 13th