A Game of Thrones

Croquet is first and foremost a gentleman’s game, played on a dedicated and well-polished lawn, with exclamations of ‘Bravo Tarquin old chap!’ or ‘Spiffing shot Reginald! Fancy another round before we retire for cigars?’

In our garden, croquet is rather less civilised, and certainly wouldn’t be fit for the ladies of the upper classes as they amble round the rose bushes under shade of a parasol. If you happen upon our garden, you are most likely to hear a raucous din of male and female voices, or perhaps glimpse a stray mallet being hurled towards an opposing player (who has probably committed some heinous foul and broken all manner of croquet rules.)

In our garden, croquet means lying face down on the grass, akin to a professional golfer surveying the terrain for possible hazards. Dignity is a luxury for the upper class and has no place in our garden. Our version of croquet entitles one player to annihilate another’s game by sending his or her ball hurtling towards the nearest pheasant in a nearby field. It sees friendships broken beyond repair, grown men battling with heightened testosterone levels, sulks and shock, treachery and betrayal.

Croquet, when played at anything other than professional level is a surprising game. What appears to be a well lined up, certainly unmissable shot, may seconds later cause a hysterical racket, as the player in question has performed a precise and elegant pirouette and unfortunately missed the ball entirely. It is a game that holds grudges and reduces well-mannered individuals to mere shadows of their former selves.  In our family, two thrones are required; one for the ultimate winner, and one for the biggest drama queen. That’s how we play it anyway.