OUT in the middle of the Ponds Forge arena, Andrew Easy is fiddling with his earring as he considers whether to play a forehand with his next bowl. Money is at stake here, the possibility of international selection and Easy's position in the world rankings. The pressure is plainly beginning to tell. A big man in his late thirties, he looks unhappy and perspiration is breaking out along his brow.
In the Sheffield crowd, one of his rivals is watching, beside him a young woman. "That's Paul Foster relaxing," breathes the commentator. "And that's Pamela Wilcox his fiancee. They've been working very hard on the wedding plans ..."
Paul seems barely old enough to shave; Pamela looks like Aphrodite. With growing horror the truth dawns. Bowls players are younger than me.
A rant about the noble sport of bowls. And not before time. You can read the rest here.
Ironing out the wrinklies