The other day, I met a friend at the park for a catch-up. After 45 minutes of blissful note-swapping – my new tabi shoes, his new boyfriend – he pulled out a pair of ping-pong paddles and indicated a nearby table. “Fancy a quick game?” We are no longer speaking.
I’m joking, but only sort of. As far as I’m concerned, games of any sort ought to be illegal once everyone present is over the age of 12. I will make grudging exceptions for professional athletes, because apparently they’re earning a living, and realistically there is very little chance of me being asked to join in with, say, the Wimbledon final. But when it comes to anything less formal, the risk of being corralled is just too high: bat those balls, pucks, packs of cards, spinning bottles and Scrabble boards away from me, please.
