We went bowling on the weekend. Us and every other family in the eastern region of Melbourne, parents outsourcing entertainment that one last time before the startling reality of work or the bank balance (or both) swings back around to clobber them over the head with the impact of – appropriately enough – a bowling ball.
I am not the world’s most enthusiastic bowler. My lack of skill can be proven by this shot alone; there is a bruise on the left side of my left knee. I banged the ball against it as I attempted to glide gracefully down for the release.
Noob.
Also, Adam and I both broke a fingernail. YUPPIE ALERT ACTIVATED.
Still, the kids enjoyed themselves.
Our scores weren’t improved by a somewhat … well … shall I say competitive and encroaching family who were next to us; the father cursing every time he didn’t get a strike or spare, and his teenage son had an annoying bowling habit, part-Gangnam style moves, part-chucking, which in order to get his unique run up meant stepping over onto our half of the lane and so we had to pause whenever it was his turn.
Bowling. It brings out the weird in people.
* Walter, Donny and The Dude being from one of my favourite movies, The Big Lebowski, where they bowl. A lot.
