ROMANTIC gestures can fall a little flat when something goes wrong unexpectedly.

It was our wedding anniversary last week and we chose to celebrate by going away for a couple of days to the delightful village of Cartmel at the bottom end of Cumbria.

I telephoned the establishment in advance of our stay and asked that flowers be placed in the room so that my better half could be impressed with my thoughtfulness when we arrived.

The owner wrote down my message and listened with apparent concentration as I spelled out my first name - the one at the top of this eponymous column - in case it appeared as Allan or even Alun.

When we let ourselves into our room there was a big smile when the bouquet was spotted and I stood by trying not to look too smug as a little card was extracted from the florist's envelope.

"Thanks for 39 wonderful years," it said. "Love, Ellen."

There were tears all right - tears of laughter.

Eventually, taking care to adopt a tone of amused tolerance, I pointed out the mistake to the owner.

There was a slight flash of panic in his eyes - reminiscent of Basil Fawlty I thought - before professional defence mechanisms were triggered and he pointed out with considerable politeness that the cards were written in the florist's shop in the next town and were not seen by anybody at the hotel.

If there was a problem I should take it up with them.

Needless to say, we did not bother.

I contented myself - after asking for some coat hangers for the wardrobe - with a quip that I needed them for my dresses.

He gave me a very funny look which suggested he was not sure whether I was joking or not.

Ah well, we will always remember the time we shared our anniversary with Ellen.

Back in Bolton, it was time to dig out my woods for the start of the new crown green bowling season.

They were last deployed about 20 years ago and - by the look of the mildewed case - were flung under the stairs in disgust after yet another miserable failure in the rain.

I have now decided I have reached the time of life when it is appropriate to make another attempt to reach some sort of proficiency at this perplexing art.

Having mastered the complexities of applying for a Bolton Council Smart Card - I filled in the form, had my photograph taken at the library, waited for the card to be delivered to my home in the post, went back to the library for it to be "activated" for their services and then made a trip to a leisure centre for further activation which allows me to play bowls on council greens - I no longer feel threatened by the mysteries of thumb and finger pegs.

My aim is to become one of those gnarled, flat-capped campaigners with a competitive glint who out-bowled me comprehensively when I was nobbut a lad.