Open Writing

‘An Annual General Meeting is to be held.’ This announcement always brings a squirm of apprehension to my corner.

While other enthusiasts indulge in the ensuing rush of handbags and diary flourishing, I only want to crawl to the nearest exit. In fact it’s a mystery how I ever became elected to those half-dozen committees. I am definitely not an asset to any of them.

For years I have had to struggle with my intrinsic aversion for all things planned. Whenever I am called upon to attend, the only contributions I ever add are loud, long yawns. When I am in the mood I can infect a reasonably alert group to inertia within five minutes. Two or three spontaneous gasps from me soon have the rest of them dabbing their eyes.

Suppressing my output can be just as distracting. Trying to yawn through a closed mouth is possible, but the facial contortions; the nostril dilations and the disdainful lip-shiverings, which have to be performed until the danger is passed, must look less than enthusiastic to the on-looking chairman.

My powers of concentration are so vigilant on other occasions. For instance I can often repeat other people’s conversations on buses when not directed at me, word for word. But at meetings, no matter how hard I purse my lips or chew my pen, my mind shies from reality like a capricious truant. Although I return home with a diary full of frightening, surrealistic caricatures, I have no actual recordings of anything translatable.

If the agenda has been particularly long drawn out, the drawings all have beards, extra curls and usually flowers growing out of their ears. Trivia, like dates and events evade me.

Stuck for a model at one church meeting I drew our minister in full regalia. The minutes – so aptly named – dragged on forever. I shall never understand why we have to endure each meeting all over again via this wretched recording.

As time dragged on I was compelled to add various incongruous items to his uniform. A wide-brimmed hat trimmed with chrysanthemums, high-heeled shoes, a sword in one hand and a shopping basket in the other. I was about to hang two diamante eardrops to his lobes when my model leaned forward to enquire about a certain date. I could see by his expression that he preferred my yawns.

My winter habit of wearing men’s socks must also prove distracting as I also have a habit of crossing one leg over the other, thereby revealing several layers of brushed wool below my frayed trouser bottoms.

The dignified language used at these conferences adds a slight touch of the ridiculous. The pompous exchanges between officials ‘Thank you madam chairman er lady,’ ‘Now I call on madam secretary’ sounds a shade whimsical when the people concerned are normally on first name terms.

When two members don’t get on, it can have a powerful effect on concentration and is often a remarkable cure for the yawns. Women’s meetings would be tedious without them. One wonders how many St Paul attended before he wrote his salutary message ‘Women should keep silent in churches. If there is anything they desire to know, let them ask their husbands when they get home.’

Hear, hear! Let husbands attend all the meetings while we wait at home. Carried unanimously.

The exception to this rule, of course, is the lady bowlers’ Annual General Meeting. I wouldn’t miss this, not even for Melvyn Bragg and I’d deny myself most things for him. Last week I duly attended ours.

Female bowlers of all shapes and sizes, their elbows eagerly pressed on table tops as they suck their filter-tips, gather around their chairlady and her entourage each year to... Well, what they actually do remains an enigma.

On a raised platform, their shampoo and sets fresh from the dryer, their moisturised cheeks glowing healthily under the spotlights after their winter rest, sits The Committee. These matronly stoics, armed with long sheets of trembling foolscap and a menacing pair of scissors in place of chairman’s gavel, line up their ballpoints for the start.

While other tables of members obediently perused their agendas, we, having mislaid ours in the rush to be first at the bar, had to make do with a menu sheet (for a future dinner) thoughtfully included by one member.

We passed last quarter’s reading along by studying whether to vote for sirloin, scampi or farmhouse grill and swapped a few jokes about what we intended to wear for the celebration. Then quite naturally conversation turned to the nocturnal habits of one member, who after more refreshment delighted us all with her explicit account of how to remain impregnant.

Loud scissors banging rudely thwarted our collective suggestions on this fascinating subject. “Ladies, this is a bowling meeting. Order, please!”

We obediently ordered another round and with diaries purposefully poised, weighed up form, noting any useful changes in our opponents. Points for future reference were: One member had had her hair permed. Another had regained her original weight. We said she looked much better and privately hoped it would affect her bowling adversely.

And the chairlady had been practising her delivery. With one superb bowling action she knocked her drink for a six and without so much as an eyelid flicker she continued speaking, skilfully wiping it up with her neighbour’s agenda. Well bowled!

After a lengthy chit-chat on something we didn’t quite catch as it coincided with a ribald recitation from a team mate, our commander dangled her spectacle chain threateningly and ordered us all to vote. This sounded easy enough. The only problem being, what for?

A whispered enquiry to the next table confused us even more. “Do we want it rescinded?” We repeated the question among ourselves, took a drink on it, savoured the expression. But no comments were forthcoming.

“Well, or we for or against?” demanded our half of bitter.

“I’m not voting for it anyway,” announced a lager lover, “for one thing I don’t know what it means.” ‘

“Isn’t it something to do with being cut off?”

A bit drastic for lady bowlers, we all pondered, which brought forth a splutter during which we all agreed if it meant anything like it sounded, viz, ‘Re-sinning’ we were all for it! More head throwing and rib-clutching followed by urgent scissors banging.

“Ask them,” I was pointed towards an educated looking lot behind.

“To cancel,” I was told. “Do we want last year’s ruling cancelled?”

That seemed straightforward enough. Why not say this in the first place. And, er, what was last year’s rule?

When everything had been voted in again, I decided to attend to any other business. In the toilets, conversation was jolly. “I wouldn’t miss this for owt,” giggled one, applying more lipstick before she hurried back. “My husband called for me last time and he didn’t want to leave. ‘Better than the Palace of Varieties,’ he said.”

In the corridor one or two hefties were flicking their bowling arm on the sophisticated gaming equipment. Eventually we wove our way past the rows of empties towards the exit with matters in hand well and truly discussed, voted for and carried.

We all decided unanimously on fillet steak!