‘Absolutely perfect length!’ calls Jason. ‘Couldn’t be a better length!’
Big Andy’s woods cluster round the cott closer than mine – but he has had the benefit of being able to lurk behind me and watch for the right trajectory. As we cross, I make sure to buttonhole Jason to pass on some important words. ‘Don’t forget it’s slightly downhill,’ I say. ‘Just drop it in there, and you’ll be fine.’
Jason’s two woods drop in utterly adjacent to the cott. Two up. It’s good that he’s got a bit of luck so early. Settle the nerves.
It’s such a simple and ancient sport that it seems that systematic codification has never really taken hold. Not round our way, anyway. I mean, I’m sure there’s a rule book somewhere that the EBA or World Bowls or Barry Hearn or somebody has come up with – but I don’t know anybody who’s read it. ‘Get as close to the white one as possible, and take it in turns.’ Nobody has needed to demand clarification of the dozens of ways that you might get out, or be caught offside, or be adjudged to be interfering with the scrum.
Every rule I have seen has really been a regulation. Where exactly the mat should be placed; the distance away from the cott that a wood must rest within before it can be counted as a score; what happens if you roll the cott too short. I believe that there was a letter once circulated to the league, reminding clubs to ensure that people wore the requisite deeply, deeply unfashionable shoes. But it’s not a game for pedants, for jobsworths or the terminally anal.
‘He’s a fine young player, that one is,’ comments an opponent, as Jason’s final wood takes a wick sideways and drops in to save two points.
He’s right. Annoyingly, Jason is better than me. I am not quite sure how this has happened. When we first started playing, we were much of a muchness. Suddenly, he is streets ahead. Perhaps he has had coaching, or secret practice, or hypnotism.
It hadn’t occurred to me, when I had played those first couple of games, that I might not be much good. I had assumed that it would be the sort of sport that you really only needed to turn up to every week. I was never a natural footballer or runner or cricketer or tennis player – but millions of people aren’t. Now it’s a bit disappointing to start bracketing bowls into that mix. But I can try. I have always been a trier.
We lose by one single point.
I can’t help reflecting that this is my fault as I stuff my deeply, deeply unfashionable shoes into the burgundy bowls bag. Despite my energy and enthusiasm and trying, I have not had a good start to the season. Jason, who has consistently played a blinder, tells me not to worry.
‘Bah,’ is my considered reply.
Perhaps I am being a bit hard on myself. Form, they say, is temporary – whereas class is permanent. It is probably something to do with the Zone. Nigel! That’s it! It is all Nigel’s fault for missing a game, and thus disturbing the fragile ecosystem that is a bowls block. I know he’s the skipper and everything, but next time I shall have a strong word with him about his commitment.
I am a lineman for the county, on sabbatical
I miss the next match, as I am away with the LTLP. Meeting up with Eddie in the village pub a few days later, I find out that we had lost badly. But the classic line-up is back together again for the following game, and it clicks immediately. We storm to victory on our home green, winning all but five ends and ensuring that the points tally across all the blocks is well in our favour. This gives us the bonus two points, and Howard is smiling broadly as he tells me ‘well played’.
Consistency. You’ve got to be consistent.
There is a commotion.
Glancing out through the shed window, I can see some activity at the front door. I hasten to investigate. Mrs Short Tony from next door is there with the LTLP; some raised voices are occurring.
The LTLP turns and gives me her Rosemary West look.
‘She’s brought you round some books from the library.’
As soon as I see the titles piled up on the kitchen table, I step back guiltily. I had been meaning to mention something about their subject, but recently all my energies have been diverted elsewhere into concentrating on not mentioning it.
‘So this is why you’ve been pissing about clearing up at the end of the garden.’ She strides indoors and brandishes the books one by one: Practical Chicken-Keeping, Choosing and Keeping Chickens, Hen and the Art of Chicken Maintenance.
‘I had been meaning to mention…’
‘This is another one of your plans, isn’t it?’ she demands. She doesn’t actually use the phrase ‘hare-brained scheme’, but I can see her contemplating having it tattooed on my face so that she can save herself some trouble in the future by just pointing.
‘I thought it would be really nice to get some chickens…have them pecking around…in the country…’
She explodes, like a tin of out-of-date exasperation that has been left in the sun. ‘Can we just get this straight? This week I’m in London on Monday, Bristol on Wednesday, Liverpool on Friday. I’ll be late home on Thursday. I am not spending my weekends cleaning out chickens. I am not spending my weekends feeding them, or watering them, or doing whatever it is you need to do with chickens. Have you got that?’
I stare at her in astonishment. ‘But I’ll do the cleaning out an’ stuff…’
‘You?’ she goggles.
I gaze weakly at Mrs Short Tony for some support. But I gaze in vain. By rights she should be looking sheepish or guilty for her role in creating this unpleasant scene. But, as with all women, all compassion is set aside under the instinct to show solidarity with another female. If men had that sort of blind pack mentality then we would have ruled the world for thousands of years.
The LTLP slams the books back down on the table. I retreat to the shed. ‘You’re bored, aren’t you?’ she shouts after me. She is such a townie. Chickens! I have lived in the countryside for ages now – it is about time I had some chickens. I will be known locally as ‘the man who has the chickens’, and I will take people free eggs, and they will be my friends. If rock superstars like Ian Anderson and Roger Daltrey can have their salmon farms then there is no reason whatsoever why I can’t have some chickens.
Walking out of a highly charged executive role without another job to go to is a powerful statement. Unfortunately, it is a powerful statement that you are unemployed. It is funny how things turn out. One minute you are the undisputed head of a household, the next you have made a principled Nelson Mandela-like stand against Strategic HR Initiatives and found yourself a dependant.
So we had moved to Norfolk and I became an appendage.
No. I had become a househusband.
No. I had gone on ‘sabbatical’.
That is the word: ‘sabbatical’. A ‘sabbatical’ as far as I can work out, is where people stop doing proper work for a bit but get away without being labelled a parasite on society by dint of using a well-to-do phrase (of Latin origin, I would expect) that makes them sound important and in control and not just fucking about wasting their lives because they’ve thrown a bit of a wobbler about Strategic HR Initiatives.
You take a holiday. He/she malingers. I have gone on sabbatical.
And when I had embraced and kissed her on her first day at work and my first day at home, when I had handed over the delicious freshly prepared packed lunch, when I had waved through the window at her getting into the car, and then at the back of the car, and then at the side of the car as it turned right