I arrived looking somewhat beacon-like after having spent most of the day outside. In the morning I'd taken my son to his football practice (I know, I know, wrong shaped ball and all that but he's only 5, he does have fun and, the way I see it, there's plenty of time for him to grow out of it and see the light) and had miscalculated the strength of the April sun. Either that or I live directly below a gaping hole in the ozone layer - because by the end of the day my face and neck were bright pink, a look not helped by an afternoon hacking back the undergrowth in our garden and further football in the park with the kids.
Anyway, a couple of pints into the evening and my radio-active visage was forgotten. I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that, as rugby clubs go, Chesham is one of the least pretentious I've ever come across. On Saturday there were no airs and graces and no long, self-indulgent speeches, just a simple format - couple of beers beforehand, then food, wine, raffle, a few deserved awards and then back to the bar for more beer and chat, the upshot of which was that several more players now want to play for the Vets team and we're determined to play a bit more regularly next season.
The crowd was, more or less, split into three camps: (i) young guns clearly determined to get shitfaced; (ii) the women's team in a similar frame of mind but dressed far more glamorously; and (iii) us old gits drinking at a slightly more considered pace. The presence of several wives/girlfriends/partners was also something of a civilising influence - or at least it remained civilised while I was there as, before I knew it, my taxi showed up as booked at midnight and I was whisked away with the party still going strong.
Call me a party-pooper but, ultimately, bailing out at midnight was probably a good thing as not only didn't I feel too dreadful yesterday, I also didn't turn into a pumpkin.