as figures and stats dribble in dribs and drabs it’s yet again another day after the night before and once more I’m listening to birds, jackdaws to be precise, cawgling their earlie in the morn’ garglin’ in what seems a perpetual state of clearing their throats as if about to uproariously sing or enlighten with a speech so profound, neither of which come to pass……. and another day after the night before for me as anticlimactic as the last and the last and the one before the last and the one before that and pretty much ad infinitum…… blazing a trail of rewind-repeat-repeat-stutter-repeat as leaves burst the trees I just shed more skin……… I sat and watched bowls yesterday… yes, bowl, grass bowls, on a village bowling green, as three unconnected pairs roll heavy bowls, hence the appropriately-titled name of the ‘sport‘ across the most-mown within less than an inch of its life carpet of grass you could never imagine from one end to the other…….. after which they stroll in fashion-sedate from one end to the other, turn and do it all over again…….. a frisson of expectation watching every bowl silently roll sometimes cunningly curving (how did they do that!?) from experienced hands and there I sat not having a clue what was going on, and actually preferred not too, it’d have only spoiled this pure unadulterated moment of sheer nothing unfolding before me…. having already cast my vote I was free as a cawglin’, garglin’ bird to be baffled by bowls and turf so short it could’ve been paint……… so you stand at one end and roll a ball, then roll another then another then another and then… walk to the other end, turn, and do it all again……… and not a pole dancer in sight….
© robert greig 2017