To the Table of Dreams! …on Thursday afternoon.
We rocked up at the quaint rural village public table to find it covered in graffiti. There was a crappy KFC style chicken along with a CND sign.
Some people.
There’s absolutely no fucking need for this. You wouldn’t find this back in Lambeth. Some of the self-entitlement from the middle class little shits around here is unbelievable.
Not surprisingly my mind wasn’t focused after this trauma I was slightly triggered with class war rage. This led to the scoring going a little wonky.
“Less chat please.”
These were the instructions I gave to my playing partner. She wanted to bang on about all sorts with nothing to do with table tennis. Focus on the game, luv, and don’t forget what the score is.
The park around us was absolutely empty. This makes a change from the heatwave summer months, when we attracted the attention of dog walkers, young families, and general local bum dossers.
“That was a good return, wasn’t it?”
…remarked to my playing partner with a high degree of sarcasm after I messed up.
In my defence I’d almost just been taken out by a conker falling from a nearby tree.
It all then went a little weird with both the scoring and some of the conversation, which I was keen to cut out.
My playing partner found herself 3-0 up. I stormed back to take it to 3-2. This has been something of a familiar pattern of late, with her concentration failing.
“Whenever it goes up I have trouble maintaining it.”
…said my playing partner.
She didn’t appreciate my response of:
“That’s what she said.”
Lost 4-2.
