Big A stands impatiently at the front door. I dump my woods and hurry out to Nigel’s car.
“I’m sorry,” I apologise, leaping breathlessly into the back, “I had to have the usual conversation with the LTLP. ‘Are you going to the Village Pub again then?’ ‘Yes, of course I am going to the Village Pub.’ ‘But you went to the Village Pub two years ago.'”
We go to the Village Pub.
Big A gives a sad nod as we pootle up the road. “Mine said something like ‘why don’t you go a bit later?'”. We tut. It is already almost nine o’clock. This is the trouble with bowls WAGs. They start off by supporting you and being all interested in the game, but the next thing you know they are demanding to be taken to the glitzy venues and then roasted.
There is huge testosterone bouncing around the car, with Nigel turning up Classic FM extra loud. He is the Fernando Torres of drawing in gently on the forehand and under his skippership we have administered a sound beating to a strong local rival. This is likely to send us towards the top of the table!!!
I consider buying some Cristal champagne, but decide to have a pint of Olde Tripp instead, which is a sort of bling London Pride. There is the feeling that for the first time this season or, indeed, any season, we have got our act together as a remorseless and determined bowls unit. I stay for another couple of pints, but leave quietly despite Big A’s entreaties to stay – I need to conserve my energy and am wary of tabloid attention. This season could be it. It could be it.