Things Go Wrong

What is it? asked Arthur.

We don't use conventional bowls, said the manager.

What do you use? asked Arthur.

Paddy melons, said the manager.

Small marsupials! said Arthur, shocked. What is this, Alice in Wonderland?

No, that was flamingoes, said the manager, who was used to remarks of this nature.

Yes, but you must agree it's a similar concept, said Arthur.

Not at all, said the manager, because you are thinking of pademelons. Whereas we use paddy melons, which are small hard yellow melons, which grow hereabouts.

That's alright then, said Arthur. Why did it matter that I was French?

The French are generally picky about their bowls, said the manager.

I object, said Arthur. I am not picky about my bowls.

But you would have been, said the manager, if I hadn't made these preliminary remarks. Admit it.

No, said Arthur. I won't admit it. We French have a great sense of humour. We are never annoyed to encounter such things. They make charming stories at the dinner table.

The last French man who came here was not so amiable, said the manager. He refused to play bowls without the proper equipment. He kicked the paddy melons all over the grass in a temper.

What was his name? asked Arthur. Perhaps I know him.

Verlaine, said the manager. And his wife.

Arthur turned pale. His bandage slipped down to his ankle.

So can we sign you up for a team? asked the manager.

May I have a glass of water? said Arthur.

Sorry, said the manager. We only have bore water here.

I might die, said Arthur.

I could sell you some milk, said the manager.