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.
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