To the University Table of Dreams! …on Friday lunchtime. It doesn’t matter how you get there; It’s what you do when you arrive, right?
That’s the metaphor for life, I think. It’s all about the journey, bollocks, etc.
My journey up to the University Table of Dreams involved running. Having been cropped for pretty much the past year, I’m making up for lost time when it comes to pounding the mean streets of C07.
It’s only a short 3 km hop up to campus. What could possibly go wrong?
I was running late as ever. Yep that’s what went wrong. It meant that I had to absolutely bloody leg it up to Wivenhoe Park rather than a more relaxed approach to my running.
I arrived absolutely knackered and in no fit state to play table tennis. I suspect the very friendly person on reception was having something of a laugh behind my back at my expense.
What do you mean you’ve never seen anybody play table tennis in a squash court wearing a running head sweatband?
The poor form upon arrival continued with poor form into the game. I collapsed right from the very, very first shot.
Soon I found myself 3-0 down.
“This isn’t working out, is it?”
…observed my playing partner.
Cheers for that, luv.
I turned to desperation. Desperation and table tennis and me are not great bedfellows.
This means I arsed around with my serve, trying all sorts of stupid things in a misguided attempt to pull back the points.
One of the tricks I have is just to smash the ball down on my side of the table so it bounces up incredibly high at the other end. It’s a shot that confuses the opponent.
Not so this lunchtime. My playing partner simply TWATTED it back right into the corner.
I found myself 7-1 down.
Oh dear.
Time was running short and squash players were waiting to take over the court.
“Next shot wins the entire game.”
…I optimistically offered.
That didn’t go down very well.
It was something of an epic game, playing first to 11 and then 2 clear points if we were all square. I managed to push ahead, winning 15-13, leading to an overall 7-2 defeat.
Now I’ve got to a bloody run back, YEAH?