My family can certainly relate to many aspects of this post.
The other day I played my first proper game of croquet with my seven year old son. I’m pleased to say that I beat him convincingly. I’m horrified to say that I’m pleased to say that I beat him convincingly. I’m pleased to say that I’ve rationalised my own horror at how pleased I was to beat him convincingly.
I first played croquet when I was about his age. The game is part of my childhood – interwoven with my most persistent and recurring family memories. And it’s not all good. Croquet reminds me that I have a foul temper, that fits of incandescent rage can descend like spooky red mist in an instant and that my capacity for self control has always been limited.
Croquet is a nasty nasty game. Much more cruel and unpleasant than golf – and all the better for it. Of course, croquet, unlike golf…
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