&*(%$@#%^!

As it happens, the call of duty to the badminton courts last night was a lucky break for me. Back at the office the inevitable last-minute night-before-pitch crisis arose, resulting in another evening of toil for my fellow minions.

Meanwhile, despite my dismal performance, our side scraped a narrow victory against the opposition. During the course of the games I noted a telling lack of finesse on our part: on the rare occasions that premier league players miss a shot or otherwise suffer a reverse, they accept it with a certain degree of dignified stoicism. Perhaps a furrowed brow and curse under the breath.

Our games (mostly mine), on the other hand, are a chorus of piercing yelps, howls, blasphemy, shrieks of frustration, gnawing of the racket handle, and arms raised in supplication to the heavens when a particularly easy shot is fluffed.

These dramatics probably take up a lot of precious energy, now that I think about it.