We rocked up at the table of dreams on Friday morning only to find that some entitled middle-class little shit had spilled some crappy sugar rush of a drink all over the table. Arse. Whatever. We decided to press on and play the briefest of brief games.
It was incredibly humid and rather hazy out there today. It was also coming towards the fag end of half-term week. The park was busy and rather noisy. At one stage we had an audience of around half a dozen little ankle-biters watching us.
I never really found my rhythm. I raced to a 3-1 defeat. I was optimistic of making some spectacular comeback. My playing partner called quits, claiming she had an optician’s appointment. Aye aye. I see what you’ve done there, etc.
