Here Comes the Sun

The sun has well and truly got his hat on this week, boys and girls. 

Isn't it amazing how a wee bit of sunshine makes you feel like anything is possible? The world is your oyster, you can do anything and you will champion at anything you set your mind to. 

This morning I took a stoat over to the new Commonwealth Lawn Bowls Centre and watched three consecutive rounds of Bowls. I'm saying they were consecutive, but really I haven't got a dangdoo if they were or not seeing as I couldn't tell you what one 'round' looked like in the first place. 

Anyway. As I sat there, trying desperately to look like I knew what was going on, I started to wonder if maybe I'd like to play Bowls. It doesn't look that difficult, and we live close enough that I could practice all the time.

Now, I don't know if it was the sunshine, or if it was the residual wine in my system from the night before, but I decided to talk to one of the nice wee Bowler men about the game. To preserve his anonymity, and mine if he ever decided to hunt me down, let's call our old man Frank. 

Frank waxed lyrical to me for nearly half an hour about just how bloody brilliant the game is. It's relaxing, says Frank. It's therapeutic. He uses it as light exercise for his arthritic knees, and as an excuse to catch up with the boys without his wife Helen getting involved. Helen doesn't like Bowls, you see. She's much more interested in having the dinner ready for her darling husband when he gets home from the Bowling club. 

Aye, I'm sure she is, Frank. 

However, Frank did convince me that I'd be good at Bowls. It's for people who like to concentrate, who get a kick out of a constructive win, and especially for those who turn their noses up at loud shouty fans. I was prepared to forego the 'loud and shouty' bit because, as anyone who has ever witnessed me in attendance at a game in Murrayfield will know, I am one the loudest and shoutiest fans around. 

The glorious sunshine and my new pal Frank had me convinced. I was going to become a Bowler. 

Frank told me about his Bowling Club (which I won't mention here, for fear of retribution) and told me to come along when they meet on Wednesday nights at 6pm. I told him I was worried I wouldn't have suitable attire. Oh, don't worry about that, said Frank as he gave me a pat on the back. Just wear a pair of trainers - but make sure you bring your own Bowls. The boys don't like sharing their balls. 

He did actually say that last sentence, and I did begin to laugh, but one look at his wee face told me he was deadly serious and, if I didn't bring my own Bowls on Wednesday night, then I might as well not come along. 

So, I did the sensible thing. I got home and I got on Amazon, my face flushed with the excitement of ordering my new Lawn Bowls. I started to think that maybe, if I worked hard enough, I could compete with Frank's club in their local tourneys. I had visions of myself being praised as the youngest member of the Club. Wednesday nights would never be the same again! Fame and fortune would surely be mine! 

Whit? 

£135 for a set of four Bowls? Nae chance. 

Frank can keep his baws to himself. 

Ten pin bowling will do me fine... So long as the bumpers are up. 

Everyday I Write the Book

If you're from the west of Scotland, you'll know what I'm talking about when I refer to the Glasgow Uni accent.

For those of you who have been fortunate enough not to hear this atrocity, it can only be likened to sticking a skewer into your ear whilst chewing tinfoil and banging your head off a brick wall, all as the theme tune from Neighbours blares repeatedly in the background.

Every sentence is presented like a question. Whiney “uh” sounds suddenly appear after words which end with plosive sounds. When a group of these people are together, the accent inexplicably becomes louder and, when alcohol is added, it becomes even more pronounced.

Perhaps most irritatingly of all, the accent is usually accompanied by a cigarette being carelessly waggled around in the air. Interestingly, these cigarettes never seem to be smoked very much – they appear to be used as more of a life-threatening accessory.

(As an aside, I haven't smoked now for nearly six months so I'm quite enjoying life up here on my nicotine-free high horse.)

However, the purpose of this blog was not to talk about the Glasgow Uni accent, mostly because it actually makes me feel a wee bit sick to think about it too much. The reason I mentioned the accent is because it's what drew me to a conversation I overheard in the park yesterday.

I was walking home from work, happily contemplating the clean jammies and Great Expectations DVD that awaited me there, when I found myself stoating behind two girls, probably near me in age, who were loudly (remember what I said about the accent in numbers) discussing one of the girls' boyfriend's sister.

“I mean, like, she's in primary seven for god's sake, and she's still reading, like, Lemony Snicket. When I was that age, my favourite book was War and Peace, you know? Honestly, it's like, if you're not going to read properly, then don't bother reading at all.”

My happiness disintegrated quicker than I imagine her dignity disappears down the drain on a Friday night at Cheesy Pop.

(As another aside, I've also been Cheesy Pop free for more than two years so, once again, I'm allowed to enjoy my smugness.)

Now, I've read War and Peace, as well as the Lemony Snicket books - and I know which I'd rather read again. I'll give you a step for a hint... It isn't the one featuring Napoleon.

But it wasn’t the girl’s taste (or lack thereof) in books that irritated me – in fact, quite the opposite. It was how judgmental she could be about an 11 year old kid who was actually making the effort to read a book. If, when she was 11, her favourite book was indeed War and Peace (which I highly doubt anyway seeing as, ten years down the line, she still found it difficult to string together a sentence without the word “like”) then whoop-de-bloody-do for her.

However, if her beau’s younger sister was more interested in the Lemony Snicket books then what gives Mrs Tolstoy the right to judge? At least the little kid is reading a book (and a good one at that), which is more than can be said about some of her peers.

Remember how up in arms everyone was about the Fifty Shades of Grey books? Aye, they’re not the most elegantly-written novels of all time, but every woman (or man, I would hate to stereotype) that picked up one of those books was reading something, and developing their own sense of imagination. 

Say, for example, you have one child reading a Lemony Snicket book, and a second reading War and Peace. Seeing as we're imagining, we'll also pretend that the second child's tiny ineffectual hands haven't been crushed by how freakin' huge the latter novel is. Now, let's say they both finish their respective books. Which child do you think is more likely to have the desire to ever read again? I'll give you another step for a hint... Again, it's not going to be the one who just read about Napoleon.

No book can ever be deemed as "proper", and to do so shows a terrifying lack of common sense.

My degree is in English Literature so it goes without saying that I love nothing more than a good book. But I'm also aware that a lot of people don't enjoy reading and go through their lives having only read the stuff they were made to study in school. so, for this reason, when I see a person reading a book that I might not necessarily choose, I don't feel the need to bleat about how crap Cheryl Cole's biography is compared to Ulysses. Instead, I am encouraged by the fact that this person is reading something, rather than slowly becoming addicted to daft wee games on their iPhones. 

Different strokes for different folks. 

Saying that, if I ever see Mrs Tolstoy again, I will happily rattle her about the noggin with a copy of War and Peace and then calmly ask her how she liked them apples.