I was also at a big pool tournament yesterday, playing my final high-level, competitive games for some time, but as soon as my team was knocked out of the event, I decided to make the five-hour journey back home rather than enjoy our customary Saturday night out in Great Yarmouth.
A decade ago, such nights out were usually brilliant but also very messy affairs. And waking up in a freezing cold caravan with a raging hangover was quite simply the price you paid for letting rip when you were away on a boys weekend. But the thought of repeating that particular bit of history has become less appealing every year...
I was also talking to several of my pool-playing peers at the weekend and many were discussing families and kids and setting a good example to the younger players... and I suddenly realised it wasn't just me. We've all grown up. Even the most unlikely candidates.
We had a good run as party animals, though. And we have some crazy times to look back on. Not to mention some very successful tournaments. And they are times I'll genuinely cherish.
But waking up next to the Missus, coughing and all, this morning was well worth the very steep fare and five hours on various trains and Tubes to come home from the event a night early.
And I even did some gardening when I got home, too. And house-cleaning. And cooking. I am clearly now a domestic goddess. And a fortysomething one...
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