Sundays are for running. Saturday afternoons have always been sacrosanct during the football season. C. goes nowhere unless it is to actually watch the football. This year the fallow weeks were filled with bowls. As in bowling green and old people. He asked if I would go and watch if he made it to a final. I saw no reason not to agree.
He is universally adored as the baby of the club. In this his first season, he made it to three finals. And he won...er...three finals.
3 comments:
The bowling green scenery really drives home just how totally British you (and C) are!
I was nearly flogged (ok, not really but I got some stern looks and a semi-polite reprimand) at Stirling Castle many years ago for almost stepping on the green with the slightest bit of a heel on my shoe. I think the Queen was planning a party there that afternoon and I may have disturbed a clump of grass.
An old person once 'dropped' a bowling ball on my flipflopped foot and broke two of my toes. I therefore find bowling to be a barbaric sport and am full of admiration for C. He is hardcore.
While on hols in Cornwall I saw a report on the TV news about bowling clubs/greens closing because of a lack of members. I suspect that if more people know about it it could prove quite popular (although it can't be all that thrilling for the spectators).
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