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…