I got about three-quarters of the way through writing a chapter where Rob spends his birthday sitting by his colleague's bed in intensive care, but then I thought it was too soon for there to be another injury-fest after the Rachel's little slip from the ladder. Variety is the spice of life and all that.

As I wrote this I enjoyed imagining bowling with the fangirls; I'm sure that would be hysterical. Please excuse my (potentially atrocious) maths.

For Manda. I hope you have a wonderful birthday.

Rachel and Janet were rolling around on the floor laughing. Literally.

Kevin was beginning to wonder if someone had spiked Rachel's drink; she'd only taken a couple of sips from the plastic beaker of wine, and yet she was tipsy already. Talking too loudly, her eyes unfocused. Laughing when there wasn't even anything to laugh about. Then again, Janet was doing that too.

"It's not that funny," Gill was saying to Janet, but he could tell from the tone of her voice that she was trying hard not to laugh herself.

"Oh, it is."

"It's his birthday, bless 'im," Rachel muttered, slurring the 'th', scrambling up from the floor, "We should let 'im."

She waddled slightly as she approached him, her shoes several sizes too big. Maybe someone was planning on jeopardising her chances, what with this and the wine. She leant over, her perfume causing something to flutter in his stomach, and pressed the keys with less co-ordination than his four-year old nephew had shown on his first venture with a computer. Surprisingly good at Pinball, was Joshua.

"You've got a bit of–" Janet broke off to continue giggling, as though tipsiness was contagious, running through the air conditioning vents and infecting all women, "You've got some chud stuck to your pants, Rach."

Janet and Gill, with much hilarity, scraped at Rachel's taut bum with their nails, only succeeding in smearing the chewing gum further. At least before it had looked like chewing gum; now, he didn't want to think about the connotations. Forcing himself to look away, he focused instead on the screen hanging above them.

BOSS

JANET

RACHEL

KEVIN

Next to Kevin, there was a little tick in the box titled BUMPERS. Who knew such a small symbol could cause such consternation? If he wanted to have the bumpers up, he jolly well would have the bumpers up. It was his birthday, for pity's sake.

He sat down on the bench and put his head in his hands, disbelieving at himself. He was a product of Gill's iron fist. It was alright for her to swear, but if anyone else dared to utter anything darker than 'crap' they were in for it. Jolly. For pity's sake. Who said these things outside of Jane Austen novels? (He didn't really know if Austen characters had said 'jolly' and 'for pity's sake' – the most classicy book he'd ever read was Tom's Midnight Garden, which they'd studied in the first year of secondary school – but presuming this made him feel intelligent.)

Rachel and Janet had now scurried to spread the news of Kevin's tick in the BUMPERS box to the rest of the boys. He still wasn't sure how he'd ended up separated from them, when it was his birthday. In the lane to the left, away from the women who'd caught the dreaded laughing disease, the game was already underway.

ROB: 5 - (5)

MITCH: 4, 2 (6)

LEE: 7 - (7)

PETE

None of them were using the bumpers. All of them were giggling, aside from Pete, who was currently lining himself up with the black and yellow striped tape in order to aim for the precise centre of the bowling pins.

"Right, then," Gill said, setting down her empty beaker, "Wish me luck."

He had never wished her luck in her life. He'd thought it would be an insult to her intelligence, quite frankly, to suggest that luck had anything to do with it. A press conference appealing for witnesses to a triple murder: "Remember to mention his birth mark, Ma'am. Oh, and good luck." Right.

She got a seven, and then a one, and strutted back towards him. He couldn't have imagined her looking more proud if she'd just solved that triple murder.

Janet, after lifting up every single ball in the rack and considering it as though a whole village's existence depended on her making the right decision, a 10 or a 12, bowled remarkably well, Kevin thought. She knocked down nine on the first bowl, and caught the final one with a twist of her wrist on the follow-up. The screen momentarily changed to show a whimsical image of a dancing clown as the word SPARE flashed in front of them for all to see.

It was Kevin's turn to giggle (if giggle wasn't too feminine a word) when Rachel stepped up to the line and lost her first ball in the gutter before it got anywhere near the pins. "Wishing you'd put a tick in that box, Rach?"

She knocked down three with her second bowl, shrugged and went back to her wine. Kevin, appalled at himself for feeling nervous, chose a size 12 (which was apparently a women's ball; Rob had a 14, Mitch and Lee 16s and Pete an 18, but it was his birthday, so to hell with them all) and bowled it quickly before he could get any more worked up. Had they spiked his drink too? It was probably Gill, determined to beat them all.

It rolled sideways when he let go of it, ricocheting off the bumpers with extraordinary strength, considering he'd done little more than drop the ball into the aisle. It hit the left bumper first, then the right, and then the left again, like it was attempting to annihilate a mile of dominoes but kept missing. He could hear the laughter building up in his colleagues' throats all over again.

The ball, in a final spurt as it reached the pins, bounced from the bumper and straight into the centre of the pins. The middle two fell, knocking the next two, one either side. In slow motion, a blur of red and white, all ten pins tumbled.

Janet and Rachel laughed, but this time it was incredulous laughter.

"Kiss my arse," Kevin squealed at nobody in particular, and then spun round guiltily to face Gill, "Sorry, Ma'am. My bottom."

"Or you could kiss Rachel's," Janet suggested, "It's minty."

XxXxX

Pete won in the lane to the left, although that was hardly surprising, given that he took about five minutes lining up, swinging his arms around like a faux professional, before he rolled each ball. Still high on his victory, he scampered off with Mitch to play with the penny slot machines. Lee and Rob came to watch the end of the girls' match, which was naturally being dominated by Kevin.

Well, he was nearly dominating.

Rachel – who'd wandered off to get some more wine about ten minutes ago, and hadn't bothered to return; Lee was now taking her turns – was on 62, and Gill 73. Kevin, having just taken his ninth turn, was on 96. Janet was on 102.

Gill bowled a four, followed by a three, and ended up with 80. She seemed perfectly satisfied with this, and disappeared to see if Pete had won anything on the slot machines. ("I could do with a new key ring.")

Janet bowled an eight and then a two, meaning that she got another bowl. She got a six, and sat down on the bench between Lee and Rob, rubbing her hands together. Was it glee, or the grittiness of every surface?

118. He needed 24.

Lee got Rachel a respectable eight overall, leaving her with 70.

All of this maths was making his head hurt, but he battled on. Stretched out his arms further. (On the theme of classics, one of his school friends had been an English geek, regularly churning out quotes for him to wrinkle his nose at. The Great Gatsby, that one. Something about a green light. Kevin hadn't ever pretended to understand; he wasn't even sure why he remembered it now.)

Twenty four. He needed twenty four.

He bowled his size 12, and it ricocheted off the bumpers once, twice, thrice, and burst straight through the wall of pins. Another strike. He had the butterflies in his stomach again, this time unrelated to Rachel's sweet-smelling neck.

"Go on, Kevin," Rob called. An unexpected display of solidarity from the sarge. It almost made him feel fizzy inside. For pity's sake.

It doubled when you got a strike, didn't it? He wrinkled his nose as he tried to add it up. 96 and 10, 106. He needed 12 overall, to get to 118. 12 divided by two was six. All he needed was a six. Come on.

He bowled his size 12, and it ricocheted off the bumpers once, twice, thrice, and burst straight through the wall of pins.

They cascaded to either side like curtains being drawn backwards at the beginning of a play. Two fell, then another four, then two more. The two stragglers danced on the platform, mocking him, before one of them fell into the other and he was left once more with an empty stage. Another strike. Another bloody strike.

He was given one final bowl, and got a four. Couldn't have everything. 14 doubled was 28. 106 plus 28 was 134.

Kiss my arse, Scotty. And then I'll kiss Bailey's.

"Good game," Kevin said, holding out his hand to shake Janet's. She responded to his gracious gesture by flicking two fingers. He grinned.

"Well, thank God that's over," Gill re-materialised, dragging a still-stumbling Rachel along behind her, "Can we go and get some burgers now?"

"Think you should pay, Kev. It is your birthday, after all."

All seven of his colleagues looked at him expectantly. He wanted to tell them to get stuffed, but he could be gracious about this too. The whole package would only cost him a twenty from McDonalds if he could convince them to share chips and drinks. And glancing back at the screen above them–

The whimsical clown was back again. KEVIN IS THE WINNER.

Weren't laughing at his bumpers now, were they?

XxXxX