Chapter 13
The concept of Fit Singles, while niche, offers various sporting activities including running, table tennis, football, cycling, hiking and dance.
Pretty much anything that requires kinetic energy and doesn’t involve sitting on the couch for so long that you slowly melt into the fabric and are found thirty years later, still holding your empty share bag of peanut M&Ms. I rejoice in the knowledge that this could never be my fate as I do not like peanut M&Ms.
As I scan down the list, I realise that it might be unfair of me to sweep someone off their feet knowing that after I participate in one hiking event, I’ll never set foot on any unpaved footpath again.
Also, cycling is out after a traumatic accident involving the crossbar of a bike and my lady business.
So I decide that table tennis is probably my best bet.
I’ve never played it but how hard can it be?
Quite hard as it turns out.
It’s being held in a community centre in Shoreditch, and I walk in to find twelve tables set up for the thirty people in attendance.
At the back of the brightly lit hall I see a group of people dressed in shorts, T-shirts which scream ‘I take this seriously’, and Nike trainers.
Thankfully, the rest are dressed similarly to me: jeans, leggings and one woman is even in a maxi dress – she is absolutely going to trip over at some point.
Surely someone here must be as much of an amateur as I am?
Just like Games Night, everyone is directed to move around the tables at ten-minute intervals.
My first potential date-slash-opponent is Robert, a tall, skinny man who begins bouncing from one foot to the other as I prepare to serve. I drop the ball in front of me and miss spectacularly.
‘First time?’ he enquiries politely, like it’s not blatantly obvious. I smile, nod and pick the ball up again, hoping this time will produce better results. I manage to hit it directly into the net.
‘Why don’t I serve?’ He takes the ball and whacks it towards me at three hundred miles per hour. This man is here to win.
‘Maybe not so hard?’ I suggest.
‘That’s what she said.’
I cringe as he chuckles, obviously pleased with his own joke.
The seven minutes remaining consist of me missing every shot and Robert growing more and more frustrated. Eventually, he quietly places the bat on the table, mumbles a thank you and wanders off.
Further matches are just as horrible, leaving me wondering if every person here is a professional ball-hitter. My fourth opponent, Christian, is thankfully far more patient than his predecessors.
‘Just relax into it.’
I nod, hitting the ball off the side of the table.
He tries not to laugh, which is better than Robert’s irritated glare. ‘So when you serve, the motion should be like a salute.’
My face scrunches in confusion.
‘Bring the swing of your arm up towards your head.’ He demonstrates slowly, his arm moving from his side to a salute position. ‘Your swing should be this motion.’
‘Got it.’
I whip the bat up and hit myself in the face. Behind me I hear a woman gasp, then giggle.
‘Oh God, are you all right?’ Christian exclaims. ‘Damn, that looked kind of painful.’
I’m mortified. Red-faced, I excuse myself, grab my coat and disappear into the night, my forehead smarting. I’m beginning to regret ever reading Alex Steward’s bloody article.