AGAINST THE ODDS:Vinny spots a couple of unlikely love-birds on his bank holiday trip to the Botanic Gardens

SITTING IN the Sensory Garden in the Botanic Gardens, Vinny Fitzpatrick was ready for some reflection. A moment or two to contemplate exactly how far he'd come with Angie, and how far he was prepared to go.

As one of Dublin's most committed bachelors, Vinny had taken what was for him a life-changing decision; he was going to ask the svelte, separated office manager of Boru Betting to "do a line", "go steady" or whatever they were calling it these days.

On this fine bank holiday afternoon, he had taken a time-out to consider precisely how he would go about conveying his ground-breaking intentions without coming across as a total eejit. There was, after all, every chance Angie would tell him to take a run and jump off the Bull Wall.

Vinny loved visiting "The Bots"; he had done so since boyhood when his old man, Finbarr, used to bring him and his two sisters up on the 19 bus from O'Connell Street on summer Sundays with the promise of an ice cream if they behaved themselves.

If "behaved" meant playing hide 'n' seek in the gigantic glasshouses, climbing the statue of Socrates, chasing squirrels and not telling their ma that the da enjoyed a sneaky fag, Vinny and his sisters were model children.

To be fair, the old man always stood them a cone in Forte's on the way home.

In the '60s, "The Bots" had been awash with red squirrels. But during his hour-long amble around the gardens on Monday, when he'd marvelled at the Curvilinear House and Palm House and enjoyed the tranquillity of the Millfield, all Vinny had seen were grey ones.

Furrowing his brow, Vinny remembered reading somewhere that the grey squirrels had taken over in Ireland thanks to their ability to eat unripened nuts, unlike their red-tailed cousins, who, deprived of their staple food, died off. As Vinny considered this rather depressing development from his quiet pitch in the Sensory Garden's arboretum, he heard a familiar laugh. It was Fran.

Now, Vinny was a student of laughs. By his reckoning, everyone had a distinctive chortle, a bit like a fingerprint, and Fran possessed a deep, side-splitting guffaw.

Tucked away in a half-hidden corner, Vinny moved to greet his old friend when he saw Fran had company - a lady, to be precise - who was most certainly not Fran's wife.

Vinny froze. He was no more than 10 feet from Fran but they were separated by a clump of bamboo. Fran was approaching a junction. If he turned left into the arboretum, he'd see Vinny. If he kept on straight he wouldn't . . .

Fran carried on. Oh, he carried on all right, thought Vinny as he watched him wrap his arm around the shoulder of his companion, a dark-haired lady who threw her head back and laughed at some remark Fran had made, and then snuggled into his shoulder.

The pair continued to the end of the garden, where they sat on a granite ledge beside a water feature. From the shadow of his bamboo hide, Vinny now had a clearer view of the woman. She was quite a looker, he thought, and young enough to be Fran's daughter.

But of course Fran didn't have a daughter. He had two teenage sons and a wife of 25 years, Marilyn, a formidable woman, who had always reminded Vinny of Elvira Gulch in The Wizard of Oz. More importantly, she was Macker's kid sister.

This was Fran, his closest childhood friend growing up in Clontarf, where they used to play kick the can and postman's knock, rob orchards and generally wreak innocent havoc.

They'd grown apart as teenagers when Fran was sent to boarding school in Clongowes, while Vinny was packed off to "Joey's" in Fairview. But when Fran returned to Clontarf to set up the "Bubbles On The Bull" launderette 20 years ago, they'd rekindled their friendship.

Vinny's heart was racing. The little devil on his shoulder was urging him to peek out from his bamboo refuge and have a good stare but the angel on the other side was telling Vinny to vamoose.

"What the eye doesn't see, the heart can't grieve," he told himself.

With one last glance at Fran, who was whispering conspiratorially in his companion's ear, Vinny eased himself though the bamboo, fronds and flowers, out on to the walkway.

He slipped out the main gate and, something rare for someone who loved his buses, hailed a passing taxi.

"Foley's, Clontarf, as quick as you can," he said.

Fifteen minutes later, Vinny was cradling a pint of plain in his usual corner of the lounge. On the box, the second half of Newcastle United and Chelsea was about to begin but Vinny's mind was on the Botanics, not Ballack.

Brennie ambled in moments later, plonked himself down and, being Brennie, suggested a bet.

"Vinny, how about a tenner on the second half? I'll take a draw and a Newcastle win, you can have Chelsea. Are you on?"

Vinny didn't reply. His mind was miles away. What should he do? Should be confront Fran? Should he speak to Macker? Could he have got it wrong?

Maybe the girl was a niece or some other relation and Fran was just being helpful.

"Only why were they holding hands then?" Vinny asked himself.

"Calling planet Vinny. Are you in for this bet or not?" Brennie was in persistent mood.

Vinny snapped back from the Sensory Garden overload: "Sorry, Brennie. Yeah, I'll take Chelsea to win. Tell you what; will you give me two to one on another tenner that Ballack scores first?"

"Sure," said Brennie, who would have given Vinny four to one if had asked.

Some 45 minutes later, Vinny had €30 in his wallet and Brennie was in a sulk. Feeling sorry for his friend, Vinny suggested a flutter on the snooker: "O'Sullivan leads 16-8 going into the evening session and needs two frames for the title. I'll bet you a level score Ali Carter won't win another frame. What do you say?"

Brennie weighed it up: "Your luck has to run out, Vinny. I'll take the bet."

Later that night, two middle-aged men, one burly and bald, the other slightly built and greying, wall-banged along the Clontarf Road eating deep-fried chips, smothered in vinegar, from the Capri.

"Fitzpatrick," slurred Brennie. "You're a jammy sod. You rarely lose a bet, you have hollow legs and you're your own man. You don't have a trouble in the world."

Vinny may have been unsteady on his pins, his gills full of Guinness, but he had troubles all right. He knew the person he had to talk to - Angie.

Bets of the Week
3pts Portsmouth to beat Fulham (2/1, Boylesports)
1pt ew Zach Johnson in TPC (80/1, Paddy Power)

Vinny's Bismarck
2 pts Lay Longford to beat Westmeath (9/4 Boylesports, Liability 4.5pts)