Another day, another mauling at The Table of Dreams. Following on from Forest’s fuck up at the World Famous, I needed a distraction to take my mind off relegation. Hey! How about getting battered at a game of wiff waff? I sure know how to take care of my health and wellbeing.
There was late afternoon sun across the Estuary Wilds. It was 4:30pm, yet still plenty of rays up above. I feel that we have turned a corner. Gosh, it’s been a long, damp, painful winter.
The game was pretty unspectacular. The park was busy full of local folk doing Sunday afternoon park things. We’re either on speaking terms, or head nodding terms with a fair few who walked past us. It would have been rude to ignore, despite our best efforts.
This all led to some confusion with the actual score. You try holding down a conversation for a couple of minutes, and then remembering exactly where you are in the game as your frazzled brain strays ever further down the middle-age mind map meltdown.
Let’s just say I’m winning, right?
And indeed I was at one stage. The game was then levelled at 3-3. We decided on a final winner takes all. But OF COURSE I fucked up, losing 4-3.
I also had a streak of mud down the side of my left cheek, something that neither of us could explain.
