By NigelHarvey


Sunday night is snooker night. I play with my son, and we usually manage to get three or four frames played before we have to leave. Neither of us are consistent players; we each put away some excellent shots, and we each play shots from which a five year old would turn away in disgust. Some weeks I win, some weeks he wins. This week he won. The scoreboard shows the extent of my shame in the final frame.

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