IF life's cynical synopsis is that you can't win them all, it should at once be said that a night at Pelaw Grange dog track proved entirely predictable.

Losers included every greyhound we backed, except for Race 9 which mercifully was declared void because of some mechanical malfunction called a slow trap.

The more surprising outcome was that the evening was thoroughly enjoyable, the crack excellent and the food - particularly some choice steaks and a rapturous rhubarb crumble - nothing like a dogs' dinner at all. Best bet yet, they even do real ale.

Pelaw Grange greyhound stadium is in Birtley, north of Chester-le-Street and alongside the main east coast railway line. The night mail once more sped southwards, before finally coming off the rails in the Spring.

It's what the owners like to call "independent", not ruled by the National Greyhound Racing Club, and what the North-East knows as a flapping track without plausible etymological explanation.

Though it is disconcerting to come across adverts for anti-bacterial jelly, top class paper bedding and worming tablets - fatal for round worm, hook worm, whip worm, tape worm and one or two others and therefore not terribly suitable for the food column - the Panorama Restaurant was entirely pleasant.

We were guests of Peter Lister and his partner Sheila Hughes, friends from another age. Peter trains greyhounds near Tow Law, was much involved in the foot and mouth fight up there, and is a former official of the British Field Sports Society which is a course we need not pursue.

Sheila was married to the late Stuart Hughes, a lovely chap from Durham who was British hot water bottle blowing champion and, subject to inflation, had his picture in the Guinness Book of Records.

She loves the dogs. "You still hear stories about greyhounds being given pies to make them run slower, but it's a very fair sport up here."

The programme carried a guide on how to understand a five dog race card. Since it might as well have been a diagrammatic representation of the internal workings of the Apollo moon rocket, we used the housewives' method instead.

It works, or otherwise, on name association. Thumper because a former colleague called his wife that and retains the scars to prove it, Aunt Milly because the column's Aunty Milly was a dear old thing who smoked Senior Service through a holder and had a season ticket at the Bishop Auckland bingo, Red Leader in tribute to Arsene Wenger.

Peter, whose dog had won the second by the time he came upstairs, offered advice of his own - what's known, presumably, as being sold a pup - and The Boss fared no better since identifying the "pretty brown and white dog" in the first.

The winner was Black Yuk.

It was Thursday and we were the only diners, attended by a personal Tote messenger, a personal waitress and a personal problem, diagnosed without difficulty as impecuniousness. Had it been Saturday, they said, we wouldn't have got a table.

Perhaps the greatest surprise about the menu is its quality. Prawn platter, pate, breaded mushrooms have all been under starters' orders many times before, whilst main course ante-post favourites include steaks, gammon, lamb cutlets, chicken Kiev and mushroom stroganoff.

After the mushrooms, we enjoyed a peppered steak (£14.45) in an onion, mushroom, red wine, brandy, green peppercorn and cream sauce with crisp and carefully cooked vegetables.

The Boss had mussels - can a shellfish swim? - followed by a vegetable stir fry (£8.95), and thought it a good each way investment.

There was then the rhapsodic rhubarb crumble, another pint of Evolution from the Darwin Brewery in Sunderland and the 10.15, the penultimate race but a last chance saloon. Mr Listed trained Just Jon, and tipped it strongly.

Had we not seen him put the dog into the back of his car, it might still be running. "He looked good when he was playing with his ball this afternoon," said Peter.

Just Jon looked a bit of a wag for all that. Only the Eating Owt column headed homewards with its tail between its legs.

l Pelaw Grange greyhound stadium (0191-410 2141) races Monday,. Thursday and Saturday at 7.15pm and serves carvery Sunday lunch. Those booking for dinner in the restaurant also receive free admission, otherwise £4, and programme. The track also serves bar meals like mince and dumplings. Party packages available. Details: www.pelawgrange.co.uk

THE Boss being, uber alles, at her German class, we dined singly - but by no means alone - at the Kings Head in Richmond Market Place.

Others seemed similarly fixed, clutching books to pass the time and avoid the eye, doubtless grateful for a friendly, sparky and rather nice barmaid.

There was an Irishman, an American and a Spaniard, all on separate tables. Once they might have been called travellers, men with a suitcase and jokes about ladies' underwear. Now the term "traveller" appears to have moved on.

The room is pleasant, civilised, the lounge menu imaginative, one of the hand pumps with a bag over its head - as if about to be hanged - and the Black Sheep on the point of croaking, too.

Baa, as probably they'd say in Masham.

We asked to order some food. "Anything in particular," said the nice barmaid - and carried it off well - "or would you just like us to bring you something?"

Specifically we asked for a smoked haddock Scotch egg (£3.95) and the game pie, which was £9.50. Other main courses included Moroccan salmon, chicken roulade and something called a Mediterranean vegetable stack.

The Scotch egg was different, enjoyable, reminiscent of the Highlands. The pie had a very good short pastry crust and a rather nondescript filling, the vegetables stood in a quarter of an inch of water and the chips were the sort which make you want out to smuggle in reinforcements from Castle Fisheries. The American thought it "just great". It'll be better still when the German breaks up for the holidays.

IF "traveller" has gone the etymological journey, what about "gay"? Aimed principally at the Backtrack column, Martin Birtle in Billingham sends a 1963 Sunderland football programme - Montgomery, Irwin Ashurst; Roker redoubtables will remember - with an advert for Binns' restaurants and their self-service "gay tray".

Since it is unlikely, as Martin suggests, that Binns was at the cutting edge of social change, can anyone remember what the gay tray could offer?

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you call an ant with ten pairs of eyes.

Ant-ten-eye, of course.