“Mmmphhmumphwhassat?” mutters the LTLP from under the duvet.
“Mmmphhubhubhubrrrtextmessage,” I reply sleepily.
It is about half past eleven at night, and I have been asleep for almost two hours. I do not have late nights now, having a Toddler, and I sleep very lightly. The quiet ‘beep’ from downstairs has woken me up.
I turn over to resume sleep.
My mobile phone rings, the silence of the night amplifying the tiny sound that’s set to be the noise of a telephone ringing, as I am not a wanker. I listen to it for a couple of rings before deciding that it might be important, and I trudge off down the stairs to find out who it is. By the time that I find my phone, the ringing has stopped.
I carry the phone upstairs. There are two text messages, the most recent one being from the voicemail service. The earlier message is from Big A. The Snooker Club has won 4-1.
4-1!!! This is a bit unprecedented. I play for the worst snooker club in Britain, a club that did actually go a decade without winning a single match. If Roy Castle was still alive we would have been on ‘Record Breakers’ alongside some students who want to spend five weeks push dried peas round their garage with their noses. 4-1.
In a way, I am a bit sad about this. All the others have been practicing constantly and have got better, and I feel that something has been lost from the club. It is far more honorable to be really, really bad at something rather than just being average, which is why I do not understand all the current Eurovision stuff. Nevertheless I was quite happy to be first reserve for this match.
I check my voicemail message. It is from five drunk people in a car park, singing ‘Four One to the Snooker Club’ to the tune of ‘Go West’ by the Village People. The noise blares from the phone.
“What the hell’s that?”
“It’s five drunk people singing ‘Four One to the Snooker Club’,” I explain, climbing blearily back into bed. “To the tune of ‘Go West’ by the Village People.”
“Oh,” she replies.
We drift back off, and I practice some shots in my sleep.