Severe weather warnings are greeted with howls of delight in societal HQ because they offer us the chance to sneak into the county ground when it is deserted and demonstrate our skills with the red cork-sphere. On one such day in or around October such a condition was met and we intended a swift 300 or so overs before lunchtime. We looked for the ball but things had gone wrong. The Secretary had gone fishing at the local swimming pool and had decided to use our only ball as his float. We naturally went down to retrieve it for the greater good. We found him at the pool, standing in the shallow end with his rod out. Its end was dipped in the water. He happily looked into the middle distance as swimmers past him by and children splashed in the waters. He had taken the keys to the societal bike lock to use as bait, and had them floating around at the base of the pool. As we looked on, wondering how we could put an end to the spectacle from our position in the spectators gallery (the Secretary was wearing the societal speedo at the time) The President excused himself, saying that he needed to check the humidity in the changing area. He took The Belgian’s binoculars with him, saying that the lens would be perfect for catching water vapours and condensing them.
We looked around for props which we could use to lever the Secretary out of the water without alerting anyone to the depths of his perversion, and the ill intentions he obviously had for the inhabitants of the pool. A bowl of oranges were present – they might make sufficient an artillery to drive him out of the waters, we thought. The society however rapidly fell into infighting as we exchanged braggadocio and expletive as to who was the finest shot. It was elected that we leave the baths for the adjoining Lido, where we would hold a skimming contest to decide who was the surer of hand. The Treasurer left for town to procure a rifle – it was unanimously decided that we needed a back-up plan of unmitigated violence – but we would be certain to ensure that he only had one bullet, lest things get out of hand.
When we finally returned to the pool, praying that the Secretary had not yet broken his duck, the President shortly returned from the changing rooms and seemed exhausted by his efforts. He headed over to the snack bar for a drink and, after being refused gin on the grounds that it wasn’t available, and that he was already beyond inebriation, he ordered an orange slush puppy. He had barely raised the straw to his lips when the local college’s girls swimming team walked into the poolside area. Deja vu overcame the Intern, who took to one of his fits. The President, so surely as a mongoose entering the lair of a friendly kangaroo, began to recoil the slush puppy behind his head and aimed at the leader of the swim team. He let fly and struck a deadly accurate blow. “Pretty girls” he said, “going around breaking hearts!”. The coach of the swim team looked towards us and one of the girls whispered in his ear while gesturing to the changing rooms. It appeared that she had come into contact with the President. The President gave the familiar call to scamper, which we did.
It was almost biscuit hour and the Secretary would be adequately dealt with by the Treasurer. link title