Last night we attended a bingo fundraiser for the cricket club in the G.P. village hall. It was a brilliant evening, but British restraint disappointed. Instead of yelling “bingo!” when they got a line, these polite people simply raised an arm, signalling the monitor to come check their card. I vowed to husband to uphold the American oral tradition of bingo should my numbers come in. But when, in game six, they did, so did self-consciousness and up went my right arm. Despite my cultural betrayal, I was rewarded with a bottle of Croft Original Pale Cream Sherry, the label of which husband decorated with polka dots using his bingo dabber pen.
I am making up for an adult lifetime of shattered California Lotto dreams with the excellent odds of village life. Last weekend husband won a bottle of champagne in the raffle at the wine tasting fund raiser. Between this and the sherry, we’re practically stocked for Christmas.