I slouch back to the round-seated bench (distracting in its own right, as its colors and stickiness appear to have been modeled on regurgitated peanut butter), and collapse. It's Sandra's turn next. This would not be evident to the average observer, as the name on the scoreboard is very clearly "THOR GOD OF THUNDER." My numerous compatriots and I have been switching names with particular enthusiasm today. Carolyn keeps changing mine to "BUSH IS MY HERO" and the like, just to piss me off, but I refuse to play until she changes it back. I must learn to use those little computers.

Sandra roots around in the ball racks until she finds one of the light ones - the little 7-pounders. We're all pretty pathetic bowlers. The bowling alley people wouldn't let us use bumpers. Only for eight-year-olds and below, they said. Fragile, they said. Pah. We couldn't hurt a bumper if we tried, although Megan did make a dent in the alley itself when she let go of the ball a bit too early. Oh well. Sandra's got her ball now, and is poised to begin. She glares fixedly towards the pins and charges, all but snorting like a disgruntled bull. The ball leaves her hand, rolls smoothly away, headed directly towards the center. At the last minute, it swerves to the side, and ends up taking out three pins.

As Sandra turns back, all of us make loud noises of celebration and jump up and down. Three pins! On the first try! That's better than anyone's done all evening. Sandra, God of Thunder that she is, acknowledges our adulation with a smug nod.

The bowling alley has a weird, almost acidic smell. This lingers with you, as I will later notice when I can taste it in the back of my throat. And oddly, all of the bowling alleys I've visited have that exact bouquet. Like the Brunswicks, come to think of it. Perhaps these places are designed to be identical - soothing pockets of uniform 1950's comfort scattered across the nation.

Now it's INSPECTOR DIM's turn. She grabs the same ball that Sandra used - dives for it really, bowling shoes squeaking. We all love these shoes. Shows what great, abiding freaks we are, but there it is. The best ones are scuffed and mutilated, with unidentifiable stains on their clownish blue and red material. I think I shall try to secure some in time for next Michaelmas. Anyway. Inspector Dim hits two pins, and there is much rejoicing, again. And yet there is no rejoicing after I play, because I do not hit any pins. Not one. Right into the gutter, every single time. As it turns out, I need no Brunswicks to distract me. And so, the long day wears on. Finally, it is my last turn.

"Wouldn't it be hilarious if she got a strike now?" says Sandra, typing in the last letters of "I HEART BUSH."

"Oh, shut up," say I. And I roll the ball.

Everyone watches as it leaves my hand. It soars through the air, hits the wood with a sickening crack. Weaves for a moment. And falls straight into the gutter.

We all watch in silence as it continues down the gaudy blue ditch. The ball falls with finality into the abyss at the end.

If it were a sports movie, the moment would be in slow motion.

I stare at the empty and mournful lane, the mocking pins all firmly in place. A long second passes.

Suddenly, unbelievingly, I turn around and leap into the air, arms pumping in a gesture of victory.

Everyone stares at me, much as they did when I collapsed on the floor and refused to get up until Sarah took the name "PROUD REPUBLICAN" off the scoreboard. They, poor fools, do not understand. I have learned that I can fulfill my purpose in bowling, as well as a multitude of other sports. My job, indeed the only reason for my presence, is to make everyone else feel better about their scores. And so, my duty done, I stride joyously into the sunset, beaming with pride and the prospect of frozen yogurt on the horizon.

Of course, the next day, we all came back again, and I got four strikes and won. So screw that.