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About Our Words: A Bowling Block

Whatever next? There are ladies on the bowling green.

John Brian Leaver responds to an article by Enid Blackburn.

With Spring's first whiff in my nostrils it is time to blow the dust off my woods and my winter ennnui, I thought to myself on rising this morning with renewed vigour in my step.

The phone rings. It's my captain surfacing from hiberation to let me know the first fixture date and venue, leaving to last the bad news.

The committee have voted in women players! He mutters fraternal condolences as I nearly choke on my porridge. I shall be plunged into medium then high dudgeon for the rest of the day, my spark snuffed out.

This all started with that Pankhurst woman, this inexorable march of ladies in sensible shoes, little bowls bags that carry 2lb 4oz woods (which I liken to little liver pills), lip balm and Grippo and the must have golf glove.

Where can I go? If I try to seek solace in the once last refuge of man, the vault, they will be there waiting for me like some malign coven, clucking on about men striking out their wood, all very ungentlemanly. I hope for lip balm on wood, Grippo on lip.

Shall I be able to contain myself when some Clarisa calls out 'block up' with her block still in her hand? Which I have witnessed before today.

Anyroad, I have a plan. Should I have the misfortune to be drawn against one of the opposites I shall hope for a heavy, wet green where my block will be wafted, without hesitation, into the farthest nooks, unknown territory for two little liver pills.

I feel a bit better now after that bash on my banjo



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