I received my membership to Edinburgh Curling Club this week. Oh so proud.
It cost a mammoth £6 for the year and means I can hang out at the rink any time I please and bring a visitor or two.
OK realistically I’m not going to traipse out to Murrayfield for their baked potato, though to be fair they do do a great baked tatty!
What it means is that I don’t need to sign the visitors book any more and I’ve given them a small sum of cash.
At the danger of sounding overly philosophical I might be so chuffed about this because its a commitment thing, you know, a sense of belonging … or more likely a symbol of life outside the office.
I love my job, but I do it for a lot of hours of my days and I welcome any escape.
Curling involves a whole new set of faces. Playing the game is becoming more familiar but I’m still a beginner. My mind clears of everything other than the game.
What does the skip want me to do with my stone, is there any crap on the bottom of the stone that may send it of course? Will I stay balanced by my curling brush as I glide out towards the house, sweep or not to sweep?
Man, it is a beautiful game.
