THIS column has brou-ght many shocks to you of late. There was the visit to the hairdresser; the barefoot-walking at Aberlady Bay; the lucky win of £25. The homes of many readers were rocked to their foundations by these revelations. Where would it all end?

Well, brace yourselves. Another shock is on the way. Once more, I am seen to have feet of clay and a brain of bronze. For, I have been ten-pin bowling! Some of you are sobbing. Do so quietly, and I will endeavour to explain to the multitude how this unaccustomed behaviour came about.

As many of you know, I am a stern man of simple tastes. I do not approve of frivolity, and ten-pin bowling is frivolous with a capital "frivol". Attempts had been made before to inveigle me into bunging balls down an alley, but I had resisted these, preferring to spend my Saturday nights deep in prayer. Not prayer. What's that other one? Oh yes, watching DVDs.

I could not see the point of bowling. What was there to learn from it? What was its purpose? How much did it cost?

However, one Saturday of late, my dining companions chose their moment. It came after I'd ordered a bottle of wine, only to discover I was the only one present with a penchant for the grape. This is always happening. Recently, as we were returning home with friends, the Burd bought a box of After Eights. Somebody ate one. Somebody else had two. And I ate the rest. I also ate nine-tenths of the banana cake. Why don't other people do their bit? I can't eat and drink everything.

Anyhow, I necked the bottle of wine and had a couple of pints to wash it down, when the vexed question of ten-pin bowling came up. Everyone looked at me expectantly. Thunder clouds gathered over my head and a grimace engulfed my coupon like a storm on a picturesque village. My companions braced themselves for a tornado of wrath. As I was about to erupt, one of them said: "There's a bar at the bowling." The dark clouds disappeared. "All right," I said, "I'll come."

Part of the agreement was that I would not have to participate, but could perhaps play the same role I'd perfected in life generally: that of spectator. However, as alcoholic intoxication made its usual fateful rendezvous with fresh air, I found my blood stirring and, after smashing a few windows and chasing a few policemen, I was up for flinging balls.

The venue was disappointing, a trifle sleazy, with something of the fairground or slot-machine emporium about it. I'd been looking forward to some 1950s Americana, a period I admire for its plain morals and boring lifestyles.

Still, we all live in the modern world. At any point in history, everyone who was ever born has lived in the modern world. It's a sad fact, but there it is. We just have to get on with things. This is the way of Jehovah, and many of us intend registering complaints at the customer services desk when we get to that big John Lewis in the sky.

At the bowling alley, I was ordered to remove my shoes. I was about to burst into tears when I was presented with a pair of flat-soled slippers, the insides of which had been sprayed with disinfectant to kill any diseases borne by the previous wearer.

Enormously reassured, I turned my rheumy eye to the skittles, which had been taunting me ever since we'd arrived. Soon, they would feel the wrath of Rab. However, as is usual, in a world where nothing is simple, there was more to bowling than met the eyelobe. You had to select the correct weight of ball. You had to make sure your thumb was in the right hole. You had to time your run and let go at the correct moment.

My companions encouraged me, though I'm sure I detected tittering from several quarters. Soon, however, I developed a style of my own, rolling the ball with an apparently unique inflexion of my hand. Neutral observers also informed me that my shimmy was eccentric. However, before the hour was out, I had recorded a couple of strikes and my score looked quite respectable.

And here is the shocking part: I had enjoyed myself. For a few blissful moments, I had neglected to fret about mankind's existential dilemma. I had lived in the moment, as the Buddhists and other wackos tell us we should. You ask: "What will you do next? Your life is running amok." I cannot tell what other adventures await me. All I can advise readers is: expect the unexpected. And I expect that's something you never thought you'd hear me say.