I remember my gran taking me bowling at Princes Park in the 1960s. She called me “duck,” not because I was destined to score miserably in life’s runs, but because that’s what Eastbourne grannies called kids. What memories! All those old men and women proudly dressed in their “whites” with their “woods” getting near the “jack” sometimes “carrying the jack,” and my gran introduced me to it all. She was a club member in the team winning matches, winning cups. When she died, the family put a bench to sit on beside the end “rink” nearest the clubhouse and the café: Vera Waters 1908-1985. The two squares of bowling green with paths and pebble ditches, and dividing wooden windbreak were immaculately kept. If she had said to me not “one day you’ll be an old many playing bowls!,” but “one day this will all be bulldozed for a plaza,” I would never have believed her in a million years.
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