Open Writing

As the easterly gales whip across the immaculately tailored plush green squares of bowling turf, strange, scarved, behooded figures, shaped like Easter eggs, can now be seen, gently flexing their embrocated knees for the start of the crown green bowling season.

Excuse me if I burst with joy, but as last – ‘They’re open!’ ‘Get wet, on your marks, we’re off!’

Mutinous murmurs can be heard in some male-order regions. ‘Women ought to banned’ one chauvinist bore confides every time we play at Meltham. Some men believe a lady-member’s place is behind the tea urn, others curse the day they ever lent ‘the wife’ their set of bowls, others are just plain scared.

‘Never bowl with women,’ they tremble when asked to join the pairs competition, a contest between couples - usually husbands and wives – brave enough to stand the pace, normally played early season while male egos are still at their peak.

Not all are timorous; lots of husbands would not miss the chance to shout at their defenceless wives – even for a brewery trip. Their stoic cries spur us on throughout the season. ‘Rubbish’ they encourage. ‘For God’s sake come off Elsie,’ they say and make helpful suggestions like ‘Take up clog dancing.’

During the winter months knitting needles and crochet hooks have not been idle. It’s been a long winter for some judging by the length of various jerkins. We usually start in full ceremonial Arctic gear. Three layers of knit-one-purl-one, topped by husband’s hippo-shaped waterproofs. Not much shouting from supporters at first, it being difficult to discern who is actually in that bundle tied up like rolled brisket. If a gust of wind did ever manage to penetrate all that plastic the occupant could be blown to the top of Holme Moss before a chap could shout ‘Don’t be short, Phyllis.’

My ‘uniform’ varies according to what our teenagers are casting off. Some-one has to wear these expensively bought items now only considered fit for middle-aged tramps. But I don’t mind, really, in fact it makes me feel – different!

Take today for instance, I am wearing son’s straight-legged jeans thoughtfully provided by his firm. Not for me of course, but specially designed for waistless, pot-bellied engineers with pipe-cleaner legs. I always did fancy straight legs, half an hour in these jeans and I look like acquiring them.

For shoes I have a choice between a totter on the toenails in big-dipper wedges, or Eastern comfort in flick-up plimsolls. I could wear suede boots with a zip that refuses to mount my calves, under my trousers, but I look as if I’ve sprouted angel wings, a sort of cycling Mercury the Messenger.

One can wear almost anything on a bike but having to land on earth and walk around the Co-op occasionally is slightly inhibiting.

Our main bowling rule this year seems to be ‘Behave’ and ‘No giggling on the green.’ We have pledged not to enjoy ourselves as much after our relegation and plan to reach new heights as soon as we’ve learned to bowl again.

Besides the obvious ones I have one big handicap, even when an opponent has been given the point after a measure I still cannot believe I am not the nearest. I want to call a second opinion, a third, even a fourth if necessary, until I find someone with perfect judgement like myself.

Marsh Ladies have beaten us to the spring cleaning, I hear, completing it straight after Christmas. Mine has sadly been postponed this year due to illness. The dog has been poorly and one daughter had a hacking cough that had to be dealt with immediately, if bedroom plaster was to stay intact.

The dog crawled in one night as if his legs were made of string. He looked so horrible I wondered if he had spent the night with son in Marsden.

But the vet assured me he was just like the rest of us – dog-tired and beginning to feel his age. Now, those wedding invitations can wait a while where’s that chewing gum, spending money, lipstick and, oh yes, the bowling bag. Happy Easter folks!