The Game

I have some interesting bruises on my hand now. I popped over to show Ted and he said "Modern medicine is all voodoo and trickery. If I was you I'd rip off that strapping, throw away the pills, and rub some Witch Hazel in with a lintle." I think he said a lintle. It doesn't make much sense to me, but then that's true of most of Ted's utterances.
Beryl has moved back in, but is still silent and frosty. Things might improve if Ted stops nipping out for a quick cig or tinny every couple of hours. He goes back in reeking of smoke or lager and wonders why she kicks up a fuss. He's a character, God Bless Him.
He's been trying to get me interested in cricket. I've always considered it a game for pansies who aren't good enough to play real sports.. Ted insists it's like full-size chess with gentlemen players instead of pieces, and that you have to watch it at length to appreciate it. So at the weekend I accepted his offer to spend the day watching it with him. We had snacks, we had drinks, and I was fully willing to absorb myself in the spectacle and learn appreciation from Ted as the hours unfolded.
And it rained. It rained all day. All we got to see were some groundsmen sweeping rain off the pitch, and some pissed off spectators who'd blown fifty quid each to watch the rain for ten hours.
Stupid game.

RC 6-8-09