Whimsy on a Wednesday!
Bringing you sneaky missions, misguided smashes, and the joys of hitting things with rackets

I’m in the Big Smoke (But Don’t Ask Why)

Yes, yes, I know, how very metropolitan of me. I’m in London. Laandan Taaan. The Big Smoke. The city where pigeons are unionised, black cabs know everything, and a latte can set you back more than a small mortgage.

Why am I here, you ask?
Well, I could tell you but then I’d have to have you dramatically written out of this blog and I’m rather fond of you. Let’s just say it involves celebrities, high-level secrets, possible cloak-and-dagger antics, and a lot of me nodding in agreement and pretending to know who everyone is.

It’s very exciting.
I can’t say more. Just know this: I’m doing something mysterious and potentially fabulous while looking like I’ve just stepped off the Northern Line in a swirl of chaos and Dior J’Adore.

The Curious Case of Walking Tennis (Yes, Really)

In other, significantly more pedestrian news—literally—I’ve had a go at something called “walking tennis.” Yes. Walking. And tennis. Together. Like fish and bicycles. Or politicians and truth. I spotted the notice while out on one of my walks, pinned to a gate like some sort of grassroots Hogwarts invitation. “Come and try walking tennis,” it said, in cheerful type. How could I possibly resist?

As someone who likes a bit of a racket-based sport (in both senses) and who enjoys exercise with a vague chance of glory and a clear winner (me, preferably), I thought I’d give it a bash.

False Advertising and Wimbledon Trauma

Now, imagine my surprise when I arrived to find that the “walking” part is purely theoretical. No one was walking. In fact, everyone seemed to be ex-tennis pros or possibly undercover scouts from the actual Wimbledon. There was nothing leisurely about it from my POV.

My first attempt at returning the ball resulted in me spinning like a Whirling Dervish and completely missing it. After many a few more misses and nearly giving up, I began launching it over the fence, past the car park, and possibly into a Ryanair flight path. There is a chance it’s now in Belgium. And this, my friends, is where my teenage Wimbledon dreams came flooding back. The short-lived ones that died the moment I realised serious tennis meant no clubbing, no lie-ins, no summers in Benidorm, and a life of spinach smoothies and strict coaches shouting, “Again!” on Christmas morning.
Same thing happened with the violin. The tutor said I’d never make the Philharmonic in under a year so I quit. I’m not built for prolonged dedication. I’m more of a “try it for a week, get bored, move on” kind of person. You can spend a lot of wasted time on things and I don’t have the mental capacity to feign interest for long.

Game, Set, Pain

BUT, despite my dramatic start I started hitting it in the actual court… eventually. A minor miracle. I even got a compliment. The lady running the group told me I had “a lovely slice.” I assumed she meant Victoria Sponge, but no, apparently it’s a tennis thing. Who knew?

The sun was shining. No one yelled at me. I felt free, fabulous, and shockingly semi-competent.

So naturally, I did what I always do when I like a thing. I didn’t leave when the session ended. I stayed. For two more hours. By the end, I’d joined the club, ordered a racket off Amazon, and started mentally curating my Serena Williams outfit (so far I’ve got the earrings and the attitude, working on the rest).

I’m in. Fully. Hooked. Obsessed. Addicted.
I would’ve played every night this week if it weren’t for this top-secret London event I’m currently navigating in between, coffees, vin-de-spesh, and grinning devilishly at famous people.

(Also, I couldn’t actually walk for a day and a half afterwards. But I waddled heroically.)

The Takeaway?

Sometimes you just need to say yes to something that sounds absurd. Try the thing. Have a bash. Be terrible. Then get slightly better. Maybe even love it.
That’s what whimsy is, after all.

Anyway, off I go. I’ve got a secret mash up in a posh suburb and a tennis ball to retrieve from a nearby postal code.