When my sisters and I were little, our Dad used to play billiards at our club after we finished our evening swim. This club is on top of a hill, and the road leading up to it is shaped like a spiral staircase. By the time Dad’s car rounded the last turn, we could smell the swimming pool and before he even came to a halt, we would be running out of the car.
Now this billiards table was located in one of those darkened, stately rooms that old clubs are famous for. The gentlemen were mostly smoking, so the room was suffused with curling smoke; together with the dim lighting and the murmuring conversations, this was altogether the most interesting section of the entire club. What made it even more so was that children were not allowed in here.
One evening, while we hung around outside by one of the big windows, Dad spotted us. And miracle of miracles, we were actually asked to come in. Not only this, we were escorted in like actual grown up ladies and ushered in with the utmost respect. There was one very elderly gentleman in particular, who would bow down low and kiss our hands and address me as “young lady” and “Ma’m” even when I was five years old.
Well! This was the high point of our un-cool little lives thus far. What’s more, we even got to sit on the bar-stools, albeit for a precious few seconds. To this day, I prefer sitting on bar-stools rather than the regular seating at a restaurant.