Tales from the tramlines. Real club players, real shanked volleys, real WhatsApp groups that got out of hand.
Nineteen. I have sat through nineteen committee meetings about club software. My wife keeps count. I have spent less time at my own children's weddings.
And after nineteen meetings, the system we chose still cannot tell me who wants a game.
Forty-six. That's how many times I said sorry at Tuesday's mixer. I counted. I count things when I'm nervous, it's a whole thing.
46 sorries in two hours. That's one every two and a half minutes.
March committee meeting. Any Other Business. Sue announces she is moving to Norfolk and somebody will need to take on Sunday mornings.
Long silence. Somebody coughs. The treasurer studies the biscuits with great intensity.
And I hear my own voice say: "Well. How hard can it be?"
