We went for our last walk to Glen Finglas where we met this chap. In the evening there was a traditional Scottish Ceilidh dance. I half completed a multitude of dances including part of the legendary Highland Fling. The main man also got me up to blow some air into his bag and pipes. I wasn’t sure how much it needed so spent most of the time blowing as hard as I could until my face cudnae take it no more. Then I had to squeeze the bag under my armpit and twiddle my fingers to make the beautiful noise. I’d actually taken some video but somehow when I’d put it back into the computer, it had been wiped. So you have to make do with Ray, a worthy substitute I’m sure you’ll agree. ‘How convenient’, my mum said. I was being accused of erasing my own photos. Mind you, there was some pretty incriminating evidence of me waltzing with a Mrs. Doubtfire look-a-like on that memory card. Damn.
I had declared that if we were to finish this snooker championship, it had to end today. A bold statement to mark I was serious for action, and probably a wise one since we'll be leaving tomorrow. It would be best of seven frames. The current score was 3-1 to my brother. If I won, it would be game on, but if I lost, it would be game over. It was another tight affair and once again it would be decided on the black. I had a huge chance. It could be potted into the middle pocket, but it was quite a toughie as the angle was acute. It needed to be precise. My hand was sweaty and the cue was stuttering as it slid against my thumb. But I hit it true. We both watched in agony as it rolled towards the pocket. It kissed the far corner of the jaw and coiled along the curve of the pocket, seemingly defying the laws of gravity, and out. I thought it was going in, there must have been a force field, or my brother had passed wind, something! But no, I had to admit defeat. My brother put it to bed and the Trossachs Cup was his. Ahk trossocks! Shiweebollocpoo!
No comments:
Post a Comment