This afternoon, in a
continuation of our newfound love unwittingly stumbled across while on holiday,
I took my wife to a local pool hall for a game or two of…well…pool.
It took a while to relax in
what for me was an unnatural environment (which implies my wife hangs around
pool halls all the time). The place was designed to a sportsman’s motif, or so
it seemed in my over-active little head. The Ireland Vs. Argentina Rugby World
Cup game blared from flat-screen TVs surrounding me at every angle, while football kit-wearing men
bought drinks. The bar staff looked like they’d been petrol-pumped full of
testosterone (and that was just the women). I was worried everyone knew about
my P.E.-shirking past; if Messrs Tomley, Rycroft and Smith walked in, I would
have done something smelly in my jeans.
(They were my games
teachers, by the way, and not solicitors.)
In reality, the atmosphere was
nothing like the mental image I painted; as is often the case, it was my
deep-set neuroses creeping in. A few shots into our first game, I started to enjoy
myself. I may not be John Virgo (I don’t know the names of any pool players),
but I’m also no Jim Davidson. I’m beginning to understand the mechanics of the
game. You hit the mini Magic-8 Ball with the thick end of the stick, right?