The hostess with no head for football . . .

Having lived in the Suffolk countryside for well-nigh 40 years, it was intriguing when my wife invited a newcomer to her morning bridge sessions. i could see from the start that this person was somewhat different from the ‘run-of-the-mill’ Suffolk inhabitants. Our new neighbour and her husband, in the twilight of their lives, had downsized from the Home Counties to the nearby village to be near family. They soon invited us round socially. it was during one of these inebriated sessions that developed from coffee and cakes to the inevitable glass (or two) of wine that the subject of football reared its ugly head. The previous four weeks had been full of World Cup encounters. Yet while neither my wife nor her new-found friend had ever showed the slightest interest in football, at least her husband and i had played the game. nevertheless, it was only when England progressed to the semi-finals that our interest showed forth. ‘Did you see the match?’ enquired my wife’s friend during one of our visits. ‘all that headbutting.’ i took another gulp of wine and hesitated, not wanting to embarrass my hostess with any impromptu remark. in fact, i had thought the match the epitome of fair play, so after a pause that seemed interminable, i ventured a response. ‘But surely you witnessed all that headbutting?’ our hostess continued, emphasising her words. ‘all that going up for the ball by players simultaneously,’ she harangued. ‘Disgraceful! They should be playing with their feet; it is football.’ i took yet another slurp of wine and explained that this was known as ‘heading the ball’. ‘That is very interesting,’ she replied, handing me a canape. ‘But, i must say, i liked the affection the teams showed each other when near the goals — their arms were everywhere!’

C. Summers, Ipswich, Suffolk.