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Victoria Bowling Lanes, Kitchener Reviews (1)
By Dox on
May 16, 2015
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On a Friday night, not too long ago, my family and I were sitting in our living room, whiling the time away on our devices. I peered above my spectacles and heaved a sigh, gently folding up a week-old copy of the Record.
"Ladies," I said, affectionately. "The time has come for us to do something different." My wife and daughter looked at me with curious faces. I got up out of my old timey rocking chair, picked up my cane, and walked carefully over to where my daughter was seated on the couch. In one swift movement I slapped the ipad out of her hand, and it flew about two metres to the side, ricocheting off a lamp post. She laughed, I laughed, and then my wife burst out laughing. We were off to the bowling alley.
The first thing that hits you when you enter a bowling alley is always the smell. "Ahh, brings back memories," I exclaimed as we entered. My daughter looked up at me, horrified that the smell of hundreds of used shoes and beer-soaked carpets could bring back any sort of fond reminiscence. But how can I help it? I'm an old man with black and white memories of saloons that doubled as brothels in Tuscon, Arizona.
The staff were friendly, although the young man who issued us our shoes wasn't wearing a dress shirt and bow-tie - maybe he forgot them at home. He said he was going to set up "bumpers" for my daughter. I don't know what those are, and would have appreciated an explanation, but I tend not to question anything that ends in "... for your daughter", although I would be wise to do so due to my hearing difficulties.
I was first up. Having not played for many decades, I wasn't sure if I'd lost my technique. I let the ball go. Almost immediately it began curving towards the gutter. I blushed with embarrassment, until, to my delight, the ball curved back again towards the centre and then headed towards the opposite gutter. How had I thrown such a dastardly curve ball? Again, the ball veered back towards the opposite gutter, and then back again, and again. I squinted, hardly believing my eyes. Strike. Just like the old days, I can't lose.
"Ladies," I said, affectionately. "The time has come for us to do something different." My wife and daughter looked at me with curious faces. I got up out of my old timey rocking chair, picked up my cane, and walked carefully over to where my daughter was seated on the couch. In one swift movement I slapped the ipad out of her hand, and it flew about two metres to the side, ricocheting off a lamp post. She laughed, I laughed, and then my wife burst out laughing. We were off to the bowling alley.
The first thing that hits you when you enter a bowling alley is always the smell. "Ahh, brings back memories," I exclaimed as we entered. My daughter looked up at me, horrified that the smell of hundreds of used shoes and beer-soaked carpets could bring back any sort of fond reminiscence. But how can I help it? I'm an old man with black and white memories of saloons that doubled as brothels in Tuscon, Arizona.
The staff were friendly, although the young man who issued us our shoes wasn't wearing a dress shirt and bow-tie - maybe he forgot them at home. He said he was going to set up "bumpers" for my daughter. I don't know what those are, and would have appreciated an explanation, but I tend not to question anything that ends in "... for your daughter", although I would be wise to do so due to my hearing difficulties.
I was first up. Having not played for many decades, I wasn't sure if I'd lost my technique. I let the ball go. Almost immediately it began curving towards the gutter. I blushed with embarrassment, until, to my delight, the ball curved back again towards the centre and then headed towards the opposite gutter. How had I thrown such a dastardly curve ball? Again, the ball veered back towards the opposite gutter, and then back again, and again. I squinted, hardly believing my eyes. Strike. Just like the old days, I can't lose.
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