The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon by Anthony Blackie Page A

places, shopping in London and taking in the shows, lives bathed in sunshine.
    I could only grovel and promise to try and do better in future. I had imagined that she might make up little white lies about me, like owning great tracts of Lancashire moors and riding out to hounds with the Salford Hunt, but no.
    So I thought up and staged a face saving plan. The moment she approached the front door, the first thing she heard was the Hoover. I was always, always hoovering the very moment she arrived. Over fifteen years or so, it must have made some impression on her. I can imagine as she toured the country, she could report something good about Vicki’s husband. Spotlessly clean carpets – tries but……. not up to scratch really.

SPORT
    It wasn’t as though we were desperate to fill up long idle hours, when we were lying around twiddling our thumbs. Nor was it a driving competitive urge to outdo each other in a sporting way, it was more a together thing really when we just decided to dedicate ourselves to golf. This was perhaps an unfortunate decision, although pleasant enough at first. We learned to play at a very pretty nine hole course out in the wilds near to home. We might have borrowed a teach-yourself golf book, but lessons were never considered. Everyone plays golf!
    Of course, I expected to be good at it, certainly on a par with anyone else, for some reason and I still don’t know why I didn’t reach my full potential.
    We used to take sandwiches and a flask of coffee, and went round twice sometimes, but only on dry sunny days. Although, the ‘bountiful one’ often and very generously said ‘go on, have another shot’ I couldn’t produce the great golf that was in me. My father-in-law used to quote ‘Drive for show, putt for dough’ in encouraging tones, it didn’t help. At last after a year or two of humbling myself there followed a most unbelievable poor iron shot and hitting the ‘dearest one’ hard on the hip, not entirely my fault – she had walked on ahead slightly, in the confident belief that I would be driving up the fairway.
    My place at St. Andrews vanished altogether. The dream of fame and fortune – Ryder Cup team glories evaporated, and on the next hole, I buried my driver, and an iron, and maybe a few more clubs into the top of a very handy low stone wall. This resolute and positive action probably saved me from heart attacks and who knows what else.
    Squash was the next sport to hold our attention for a while. There wasn’t a woman in England who couldn’t beat me. Men, I can lose to with grace and not too much pain. The odd off-day or pulled muscle are acceptable reasons to lose. Richard, my brother-in-law and I believe a very good squash player, told me in confidence that if he ever thought he could lose to a woman opponent, ever – he would break his own arm before the game ended.
    Well, that’s all very well, but what am I to do? Until one day I found a friend of ours who admitted on oath, that he had never ever played squash, didn’t know the rules or anything. This was my chance to shine. So one brave night I booked a court and feeling reasonably confident showed Peter the rudiments and some of the rules.
    For the first two games, I knew what it felt like to be a winner, king of the court, champion material and then to show his gratitude for my coaching he beat me in the third game. Somehow quite without realising it, the wall caught my racquet, it smashed to smithereens. Now I am no longer a player, team or otherwise. I run on my own. There in solitary state, rain, hail, sleet or snow out and over the fell I go.
    Over the sporting years with the aid of our long-time Wigan friends, we would meet up every month or six weeks and have dinner with Rob and Janie, Dave and Pam. Pam was one of Vicki’s school friends – sadly she died, far too young – but not without enjoying our many years of