Playtime

As I've mentioned before, I used to play Badminton a lot. And by 'a lot' I mean 'A. LOT.' Geez, I used to run the freakin' club! Every Friday… Yes, admittedly it was a bit of a killer for the social life, but there was always Saturday night to go out boogie-ing.

Anyway, recently I've been trying to get back into Badminton, for several reasons. First of all, I have indeed given up my membership to the gym in order to concentrate more on the running side of things, and I figured Badminton would make a nice exerciserly addition to my new fitness regime. Secondly, my former Badminton cohorts kept texting me and appealing for me to return. And who am I to deny them the pleasure?

(Seriously, a few well-phrased texts and I'll cave into pretty much anything. I'm *such* a push-over.)

I've been pretty consistent at going, only missing one Friday this year (last week when I went to see Sleeping Dogs.), and d'ya know what? I'm really enjoying it again. Can I use the phrase joie de vivre? Hell, yes, I can, despite the fact that I'm not entirely sure what it means!

There's still a few familiar faces from years back, which is nice because I do appreciate some consistancy in these sort of things. And steadily the old skills are returning; once again, I am becoming the badminton Jedi of West London…

It's not all perfect, though; seems that my increased focus on a bit of post-run weight-lifting has given me the ability to whack the shuttle* far further than ever before. Have you seen that bit in Superman Returns when Clark throws the baseball and his dog just turns round with a look that sort of implies "you can effin' get that yourself, matey"? It's just like that.


Which of course is a little problematic when you're trying to keep your cock in the box**. In fact, it's been leading to a fair bit of under-the-breath cursing. It's almost like I've developed tourettes. Last night I just started saying "SWEAR" or a random word like "jam jar," because I don't want a reputation as the potty-mouthed Badminton bad boy of West London.

The other problems I've got are pretty much brain freeze-related. First of all, I can't for the life of me manage to keep track of the score these days, and I'm pretty sure that I've just given some games away by my opponents (we play doubles) just saying "That's it - we've got 15," and I go "Oh, really? OK." Secondly, because we play doubles, I'm always under the misguided impression that my partner is just going to get the shot. So I've taken to muttering a number of mantras under my breath to suit specific purposes. Lasts night's favourites were "run like a cheetah!" and "scurry like a weasel!" For the most part they worked, enhancing the impression of me being the tastiest and most capable piece of real estate on the court.

The other thing that got me laughing yesterday was that one of our regulars brought her son along, who despite being only about 11 or 12, is a damn fine player. The thing is, when you serve to him, he holds both his arms out straight in front him. It's like serving to the undead.


*Note how I refrained from calling it 'the cock' purely for a cheap joke?

**Oh, I'm totally making THAT joke.