Lad’s Night Out

It’s been one of those weeks at work. Jam packed with highs and lows with a healthy helping of stress.

Hubby is out tonight with the lads, an evening of trying to get balls in holes with big sticks. So being the girl I am I joined in. By joined I mean became duty driver and the fourth person in their little team.

Well I played about 15 minutes anyway. And after receiving stick (from my own father I might add) about the “piss poor driving of people with grey hair in Hastings” (thanks Dad!) and the further stick over having to park 100 yards away from this buzzing establishment (apparently I parked a whole cigarettes worth of walk away which may or may not constitute the requirement of catching a cab or bus to get back) I’m sitting in the corner freezing my mammaries off.

Being relatively newly fitted with high quality varifocals I thought I might be in with a chance, oh how wrong I was! Leaning over the table all I can see is over the top of my Superdry specs – not a single part of my lens was of use. Feeling like a large fruit bat peering down a table of what might as well be Opal Fruits (yes I said Opal Fruits, I will not subscribe to this Starburst nonsense!) and to be fair they rolled like bloody chewy sweets the way I was playing, I have given up and am perched in a corner hitting up this second blog if the evening – what can I say it feels like a two blog kinda day.

I don’t really get the point of snooker, weird points system I can’t follow, specific order of colour to be followed precisely (again a list I can’t follow), I don’t get how this is relaxing, all I can hear is non stop verbal compliments of “shot” (ball went in hole) “nice shot” (ball unexpectedly went in hole) and “unlucky” (shot was shit and missed every bugger on the table). But it seems to keep this lot entertained. As does apparently the perpetual chalking of their sticks.

I’m being plied with diet cola, which with a bladder like mine (one that has been hammered by carrying three extra large kids) is a big mistake – I sneeze and the place will need a bulge pump to save it. I’m cold, because clearly walking slowly around an oversized green felt dining table keeps the blood pumping just like the riveting and mind blowing game I’m now spectator of. I’m bored (again the repartee and game are enthralling – not). So why do I find no myself slowly relaxing? I’m guessing it might be hypothermia.

Note to self: get a warm hobby, where balls sticks and men are not involved. Hello crochet by the radiator!!

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