The sedate game of bowls has ancient roots going way back to the time of the pharaohs. Nowadays, the Brit variety is traditionally associated with carefully manicured greens, well-versed etiquette and the grey herd in their virgin white togs. But in recent years, this most genteel of sports has attracted fresher blood, none more so than our own Chedgrave Bowls Club. After a period of decline, the club was newly invigorated with the young and the bold in their trendy multi-coloured livery and a thirst for glory.

Come a sunny summer’s day, we occasionally pop along to watch them play an end or three. While we don’t really have the first clue what’s going on, it’s a pleasant way to spend a warm afternoon with a couple of G&Ts – ice and a slice. And I get to wave my pom poms about, much to the disapproval of the tut-tutting traditionalists.

Nevertheless, the game remains a bastion of gentlemanly (and gentlewomanly) behaviour. Or does it? Not according to author Melvyn Clark. He’s written a risqué exposé called Fun, Sex and a Load of Bowls which is partly inspired by the real-life events of his own days on the green. His book is so “saucy”, he said, that his publisher had to “calm it down”. It makes me wonder if there’s a lot more than tea and crumpets going on in our local bowls hut. I might stick my head round the door next time we’re passing, just to check. Because, it’s just not cricket.