Why Bowling Shoes Go To Sweden
Lately I've found myself asking people all sorts of daft questions. I've always had the kind of over-developed curiosity that could get through more cats than an Andrew Lloyd Webber show, but this used to be tempered with a degree of self-censorship.
No more.
These days, whenever I encounter some petty puzzle or everyday enigma, I transform into N. Parker Esquire and browbeat hapless strangers into sobbing submission.
"Can I ask you where you bought that kebab?"
"Do those piercings hurt when you have them done?"
"But what made you think you were any good at stand-up comedy?"
I think this is a symptom of middle-age. The idea that at least half of your life is already over makes you want to find answers before it's too late. I mean, you don't want to be lying on your death-bed wondering how they make cornflakes out of corn or trying to think of another word for 'synonym'. Imagine asking the priest to postpone his reading of the Last Rites so he can look this stuff up on Wikipedia. He'd be miffed.
Life, you see, if full of profound mysteries and lots of silly little queries.
This afternoon, for instance, I was with Zed-son at the Inverness Rollerbowl. Tenpin bowling is one of the last two remaining father-son activities where I can still be confident of victory. (The other is mini-golf, but it's easier to cheat at that.)
So, having watched my son's final ball rumble into the gutter, I set a good example of fine sportsmanship and acknowledged my win with a humble handshake and a lap of honour around the burger bar. But it was as we returned to the shoe counter that my quirky curiosity kicked in.
"Tell me," I asked the manager, as he used trigger spray disinfectant to remove the scent of glory from my bowling brogues, "does anyone ever forget to return their shoes?"
His eyes rolled skywards in a passable imitation of a zombie.
"You don't know the half of it. We lose more shoes that way!"
"Really?"
I looked again at the blue, white and burgundy footwear and tried to imagine anyone walking down the High Street in such a pair without incurring the ridicule of passers-by or attracting a small parade of laughing children. Either way it seemed reasonable to assume that bowling shoe thieves would be easy to spot, but the manager was shaking his head.
"The furthest away our shoes have reached is Sweden."
"Sweden?"
"Yes. Sweden. We had a stag party in here one night and one of the boys left with our shoes. The next morning he got on a plane to Stockholm still wearing them. To be fair, his mate phoned me and confessed and even offered to pay for them, but I let him off."
Well, I was glad I had asked and, you know, I think the manager was pleased that someone else was actually interested in his vanishing shoe problem. He returned my own Velcro-fastening trainers with a cheery smile and not a single comment about my fashion sense.
And there we have it. Curiosity satisfied.
As for my next question...just don't ask.
Comments
or to comment.