Millie's Game Plan Read Online Free
Author: Rosie Dean
Tags: Humor, Humorous, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Women, Women's Fiction, General Humor, Humor & Satire
smile.
Surveying the scene before me of lush green grass, faded clapboard pavilion and at least a dozen men standing about the field, my hopes were high that today would yield a cornucopia of talent – a smorgasbord of knights in white flannels. I drew a deep breath, dropped my shoulders back (all the better to enhance my A-cup boobs) and sauntered over to watch the action.
I unfolded my stool and perched on the edge of the group of spectators – mostly lazing batsmen and a couple of sweet old men on ancient, striped deck chairs, who were sharing a tinfoil wrap of sandwiches. The local team was taking it seriously, with a ‘Roger’ (can’t imagine him called anything else) transmitting an incessant stream of commands to the fielders while the other team, from Itchenfield, appeared to have press-ganged rejects from the Glastonbury Festival, one of whom was barbecuing burgers on the boundary.
Hauling my camera and telephoto lens out, I busied myself with setting up the equipment and looking professional. The mere chance that my potential husband was in the vicinity, charged my system with anticipation. My plan called for careful observation and contemplation. I owed it to my future to cover all angles. But as soon as I focused on the field of play, an elderly voice wheezed, ‘My, that’s an impressive looking camera, Frank.’
‘Wasted on this game.’
‘Ooh, I don’t know. First time old man Cartwright’s turned out this year. If she gets a shot of him at the crease, it’ll be one for the archives.’
A wheezy chuckle followed. ‘ Aye, and he’s still upright.’
More chuckles.
I took a couple of pictures of the batsman, who was watching the bowler polish the ball on his crotch. In the interests of sporting trivia, I captured said crotch before scanning the fielders for someone promising. I’d vowed to shoot all contenders with equal professionalism: full-length, close-up, profile and always, always third finger, left hand. I liked to be thorough, whatever I undertook.
‘What are you up to, my dear – talent scouting for Hampshire?’
Oh, if he only knew.
I looked at the old chaps, who smiled – possibly remembering long-gone days when they might have made a play for me. I laughed politely. ‘No, just interested in sport photography.’
‘Sport?’ The nearest one lowered his voice, ‘You want to get yourself down to Southampton – home of Hampshire Cricket. Watch a professional game.’
‘Too expensive,’ I replied, with an apologetic wrinkle of my nose, and turned back to the game, eager to study the players.
‘You know, we don’t get many young ladies down at matches.’
All the more for me, I thought.
‘Nice seeing a pretty face, for a change.’
The other one spoke. ‘Are you a cricket fan?’
I looked across at them. ‘Not especially. I’ve just taken up photography. Sport seems more challenging than landscapes.’
‘Oh yes. What other sports have you tried?’
I took a breath. ‘Actually, this is my first.’
Well, that set them off. They appeared duty bound to impart as much knowledge of cricket as they could, and insisted I bring my stool closer so they could talk more quietly. Bad move. It put me in grabbing distance, which the nearest one – Jim – did frequently, squeezing my wrist as he imparted some nugget of information about The Ashes or ball seams (don’t ask) making it impossible for me to get away. Imagine my relief, when a ripple of applause signalled the dismissal of a batsman and my chance to escape.
‘I’m just off to take some shots from the other side,’ I said, leapt up and belted round behind the pavilion. I could feel their eyes on me as I trained the lens on a new batsman, who was encouragingly cute. Short but cute. In close-up he had a look of Brad Pitt but it couldn’t be denied – legs of a pit pony.
Next, I focused on players lazing outside the pavilion; they were an unkempt bunch from Itchenfield. At least half were in t-shirts and
Surveying the scene before me of lush green grass, faded clapboard pavilion and at least a dozen men standing about the field, my hopes were high that today would yield a cornucopia of talent – a smorgasbord of knights in white flannels. I drew a deep breath, dropped my shoulders back (all the better to enhance my A-cup boobs) and sauntered over to watch the action.
I unfolded my stool and perched on the edge of the group of spectators – mostly lazing batsmen and a couple of sweet old men on ancient, striped deck chairs, who were sharing a tinfoil wrap of sandwiches. The local team was taking it seriously, with a ‘Roger’ (can’t imagine him called anything else) transmitting an incessant stream of commands to the fielders while the other team, from Itchenfield, appeared to have press-ganged rejects from the Glastonbury Festival, one of whom was barbecuing burgers on the boundary.
Hauling my camera and telephoto lens out, I busied myself with setting up the equipment and looking professional. The mere chance that my potential husband was in the vicinity, charged my system with anticipation. My plan called for careful observation and contemplation. I owed it to my future to cover all angles. But as soon as I focused on the field of play, an elderly voice wheezed, ‘My, that’s an impressive looking camera, Frank.’
‘Wasted on this game.’
‘Ooh, I don’t know. First time old man Cartwright’s turned out this year. If she gets a shot of him at the crease, it’ll be one for the archives.’
A wheezy chuckle followed. ‘ Aye, and he’s still upright.’
More chuckles.
I took a couple of pictures of the batsman, who was watching the bowler polish the ball on his crotch. In the interests of sporting trivia, I captured said crotch before scanning the fielders for someone promising. I’d vowed to shoot all contenders with equal professionalism: full-length, close-up, profile and always, always third finger, left hand. I liked to be thorough, whatever I undertook.
‘What are you up to, my dear – talent scouting for Hampshire?’
Oh, if he only knew.
I looked at the old chaps, who smiled – possibly remembering long-gone days when they might have made a play for me. I laughed politely. ‘No, just interested in sport photography.’
‘Sport?’ The nearest one lowered his voice, ‘You want to get yourself down to Southampton – home of Hampshire Cricket. Watch a professional game.’
‘Too expensive,’ I replied, with an apologetic wrinkle of my nose, and turned back to the game, eager to study the players.
‘You know, we don’t get many young ladies down at matches.’
All the more for me, I thought.
‘Nice seeing a pretty face, for a change.’
The other one spoke. ‘Are you a cricket fan?’
I looked across at them. ‘Not especially. I’ve just taken up photography. Sport seems more challenging than landscapes.’
‘Oh yes. What other sports have you tried?’
I took a breath. ‘Actually, this is my first.’
Well, that set them off. They appeared duty bound to impart as much knowledge of cricket as they could, and insisted I bring my stool closer so they could talk more quietly. Bad move. It put me in grabbing distance, which the nearest one – Jim – did frequently, squeezing my wrist as he imparted some nugget of information about The Ashes or ball seams (don’t ask) making it impossible for me to get away. Imagine my relief, when a ripple of applause signalled the dismissal of a batsman and my chance to escape.
‘I’m just off to take some shots from the other side,’ I said, leapt up and belted round behind the pavilion. I could feel their eyes on me as I trained the lens on a new batsman, who was encouragingly cute. Short but cute. In close-up he had a look of Brad Pitt but it couldn’t be denied – legs of a pit pony.
Next, I focused on players lazing outside the pavilion; they were an unkempt bunch from Itchenfield. At least half were in t-shirts and