Mercy dash.

Throwing on my shoes, leaping into the car, screeching left out of the gate towards the edge of the village. The splotlets of rain against the windscreen as I speed up past the small church and green lane, past a surprised flock of sheep, hitting the derestricted zone on the hills and pressing the throttle to the floor. All the time, worry about the pregnant LTLP gnawing away at my mind.


Would my dinner still be ready on my return from the emergency bowls call-out?

I whipped the car to a Bo Duke-like halt outside the pub (but exiting properly, via the door) and sprinted up the drive to the green. Cries of ‘thank God you’re here!’ greeted me from my depleted team, an absolute first in my bowling experience or, indeed, in any walk of life whatsoever.

“You’re with the ladies tonight,” called the team captain, indicating rink number five. Four ends had already been played, and we appeared to be losing by 238942342 points to 0. More cries. “Young man!!! Young man!!!”

A quick conflab. One lady admitted that she neither confident nor very good, the other revealed that she couldn’t actually get the wood as far as the other end of the green.

“You’ll have to be skipper,” she decided.

Skipper!!! They made me skipper!!! Pride shone from every pore as I strode up the green to take my place. Skipper in bowls is a v. important job, as it involves shouting instructions to the rest of your team – where you want them to aim for, what to hit etc. Then you have your go last, which is fun because there are loads of things you can hit.

By the 21st end I was hoarse but elated. And we had brought the score back to 238942342 points to 8.

We shook hands and I explained that I could not go for a beer, as I was waiting for my dinner to be cooked for me and it would be unfair on the LTLP to hang around.

I was dead chuffed as I gently drove home. I had saved the day, like some bowls superhero.

I should have a big ‘B’ on my chest. The LTLP agreed.