Dear Auntie Gill,
I know you advice and mentoring is concerned with tennis problems but I wonder if you could help me with a rather delicate matter that has just arisen. I have recently had a birthday celebration, should that be the word, and have received a gift which was, and is, a deeply affecting present. Not only was it well researched, it was well chosen and, from my knowledge of the products, would not have been cheap. Top class would cover it. Deeply moved. To complicate matters it came from one of my female tennis chums, and, not to put too fine a point on it, she is rather attractive. The odd thing is that on the court she is demur and retiring, as quiet as a mouse, and not given to improper behaviour.
When we have baseline rallies I always hit the ball softly because her game is genteel and totally without any crash, bang, wallop stuff. A touch player. The only time she squealed was when a mouse ran across the court. She doesn’t run, she glides. When there are net cords she is so understanding. Always gives a rueful smile.
So what am I to make of this gift? Is there a hidden agenda do you think.?
She once complimented me on my designer stubble but that’s about it.
As you know I have led a sheltered life and making any kind of approaches fills me with dread. I stutter so much it is rather like the castanets in Carmen.
How should I respond, if at all? What happens if her boyfriend is a Sumo wrestler?
Hmmmm…I doubt that.
When we have a hug at the end of the match, I go weak at the knees. Mind you, they are weak enough anyway.
Any advice on how to proceed would be of inestimable value. I have a fine collection of back numbers of the Australian Women’s Weekly which could be of interest to her.
The idea of ‘death being a good career move’ struck a chord with Mumbles.
In a bizarre dream, with his cat (and confidant) Trevor, he came up with a cunning plan.
Perhaps a virtual death?
d r e a m m u s i c…
Dawn. Washes of candy floss pink and Naples yellow caress the Eastern sky.
Jarring black contrast. Trevor sits atop the winged figure on the bonnet of the Silver Ghost.
He sports his black top hat, Stokely shades, black cane and gloves. Sits statue like, beside himself with grief, but set of his jaw Sherman square. Cortège solemnly glides through Polegate.
Turnout of local marching girls astonishing. Palpable deep grief. Trev tips the cane to acknowledge. The Uckfield Silver Band plays ‘Waltzing Matilda’, a ditty that needs no tuning and certainly didn’t profit from any here.
The splendid procession arrives at the Eastbourne Crematorium. Hushed silence as Trev stands beside the coffin. Coffin is bedecked with a tapestry depicting the heroes of the Tasmanian Artists Rifles Battalion.
Inside, the Crematorium groaned with the tear- stained great and good.
After stumbling over Daniel, Donald, Ronda eventually got to ‘David’ in a reminiscence that was a monument to brevity.
Trev stiffened. His Eulogy was a minute away. He shuffled his notes. Then, he became dimly aware of someone moving in to sit beside him. God, he stank. A horrendous cocktail of BO, Cutters choice roll-ups and over oaked Rioja. A halitosis laden breath engulfed Trev. This stuff would have burnt the paint off a German Battle cruiser.
It was Mumbles! ‘What the xxxx is goin on Trev? Who is the dude in the box? He looks as square as Queen Anne. Mumbles went on…
‘I come in here every day to get warm….about every hour or so it heats up nicely…’ Trev was incredulous.
‘Where is your earring?…’ said Trev…. and then his jaw dropped. ‘You haven’t got a left ear either, what the hell have you done?!’
‘I thought it was a good career move’, came the feeble reply. ‘Besides, I can listen to your terrific eulogy with my other ear……CAN’T WAIT!…..’
Mumbles awoke with both ears intact.