Bowled Over

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What options were there left open to me? I had always played sport, well almost always, up until about ten years ago when sciatica finally made me realise I could no longer chase a football around a sports hall or a tennis ball about a court. Nowadays, my level of fitness seemed to be determined not by how far or fast I could run, but more by my ability to pick the soap up from the shower floor or painlessly put on my socks in the morning. I was in my early sixties, but after a decade of inactivity and approaching early retirement, I was still harbouring a desire to play some sport. In mid-April on a stroll into town, I noticed a small poster on a garden gate advertising an open morning at the local bowls club. I mentioned it to my wife Dolly, as she had been going on for years about us joining something together, so it seemed a fair compromise; despite never having any interest in sport, she was rather keen at the prospect. It all seemed rather appealing, what could be more English than playing bowls on a sunny summer's afternoon. Yes, it seemed perfect ... what could possibly go wrong?