Something really rather funny happened at our Cribbage Group this afternoon. At least, I thought it was funny. Mr B is not so sure.
Our group conveners, Delia and Jim (they of the delicious biscuits served half-way through the session) decided that we should play a “four” – as in two pairs playing each other. Usually we play in a two or a three so this was something
of a departure. So far, so exciting. What is more, both Delia and Jim seemed to have got it into their heads that I (yes, I do mean me, myself and I!) was the World Expert on playing cribbage in a foursome.
Delia identified the four people who should play in the first foursome and delegated it to me to explain the rules of this version of the game and keep everyone on track. Mr B’s face was a picture. He is the man who
used to play cribbage every Sunday in the local pub with Dave-From-The-Flat-Upstairs against ferocious competition. He knows everything there is to be known about playing pairs whereas I know – well, the basics, shall we say. He was much too loyal to
point this out to the gathered throng but I could feel him glowering gently at being overlooked – especially in favour of me.
We had such fun on our first
foursome that, after the Biscuit Interval, four more people wanted to try their hand at this new version of the game. Delia suggested that I and my new partner should play at the other end of the same table so that I could help the foursome out if they found
themselves in any difficulty. I caught Mr B rolling his eyes in utter bemusement.
Mr B and I are pretty good at identifying who is the better at what. I am better
at the whole communications game – the texting, the emailing, the letter writing. However Mr B has neater writing and also types more accurately. I type very fast and very inaccurately and have to read through and correct virtually every word before
transmission. My excuse is that my mind moves faster than my fingers. Mr B says I am just slap-dash. Mr B insists that, on account of his better handwriting, he should write the addresses on any letters we need to send. Except at Christmas when,
for some inexplicable reason, he concedes that my handwriting passes muster and I am allowed to address envelopes.
Mr B is better at using all the many remote
controls which litter our living room. This is because (i) he gets more practice and (ii) he is very possessive of them and not inclined to let me get my hands on them. I am better at tidying things away though Mr B does not consider this to be a positive
as he likes to point out that once I have tidied something away it is lost forever. Mr B is better at cooking fried food, like bacon, sausages or fried eggs though he does tend to leave the frying pans lying around unwashed . I am better at pastry though I
do have an unfortunate tendency to cover everything, including the floor, in flour. Mr B is better at losing things. I am better at finding them. With a few notable exceptions.
Everyone at cribbage today agreed that playing in a four was much more sociable. They didn’t seem to grasp the cut-throat nature of playing in pairs. This was almost certainly because they were under my moderate influence, rather than that of
competitive Mr B. Unfortunately, it won’t stand them in good stead, if they ever find themselves across the table from the Big Boys.
In the car on
the way home, we had a good laugh about my elevation to expert status. I conceded, willingly, that Mr B is far, far better than I am at Cribbage Strategy whether played in a Two, a Three or a Four. But clearly, I explained, the aura of competence
which I carefully cultivated when I was a working gal has not completely worn off. Mr B was somewhat mollified.
After all, you can’t argue with an aura,