Battle of the Sexes

I have no idea where it began, but soon enough, my inbox was littered with challenges, bravado, threats, sneers.... the gauntlet thrown, and smacked handily back. A girls vs. boys Netball challenge very loosely disguised as a team bonding event. Apparently something to distract us from the sorry year the recession has brought on. Riiiight. Or in other words as überboss declares, it's to inflict total humiliation upon Kim for having the effrontery to even suggest the men would do anything other than annihilate the fairer lot.

Statistically, we didn't stand a chance. But clearly, no one had assessed the stats before the challenge was issued. The men outnumber the women more than 2:1 in not just numbers but height! For some peculiar reason, the vast number of females in client solutions seem to be vertically terminated at under 5 feet! Not exactly the qualification one would seek when banding together a team for a game that involves shooting at a hoop some distance above the extended arms of someone 6 feet tall. Apparently, Netball being a 'woman's' sport gives us the edge. Hmmmmm. I suppose that could be proffered as sound argument, had more than just 2 actually ever played it. I have yet to understand why we would have chosen to challenge the males to a game that none of the women know how to play! Suffice to say, by the time we boarded the tube bound for our destiny, we were au courant with the fact that each side fielded 7 players.

A few dubious 'are you sure we ought to be following Brakey and Tony - do they even know where they're going' later, we find the Netball court, and have a blink of an eye briefing. You can't hold the ball for more than 3 seconds. You can't run with the ball. You cannot come closer than 3 feet to your opponent. You can't leave your section of the court. You can't bounce the ball. So what the fuck can you do then? Oh, you can take one step with the other foot...! We are so gonna get creamed. I'm given a bib with GS on it. Think that was Goal Shooter (although why anyone would want to call a basket a goal is beyond my limited comprehension). Naturally, I'm stuck in my third with Guy. Like it isn't enough for us to spend all day together, we're shoving and treading all over each other in an attempt to bond more!

Needless to say, the girls got creamed. I cannot tell you what the score was, but suffice to say we had only 1 on our side, and Guy and I were mostly bored in our third as all the action happened at the other end. To be fair, we did enjoy our vantage position rather too much, the sight of 4 foot nothing Kelly ineffectually leaping with arms outstretched and missing Charlie's armpits, Vanessa being spun around before turning invisible behind a stolid G child... Mercifully, the hysterical giggles prevailed and we swapped to mixed teams and some more serious sweating. I haven't run around and panted at a game in more than 20 years I think, and I'm glad to report that my philosophy towards life is safe and sound (as a gentle reminder, that would be, I don't care about being fit because we're all going to die....). I am built for speed and I hassle Michael as much as I can amidst chuckles at my persistent flaunting of the you can't move with the ball rule, before tagging to get off court prior to my expiry (and no, I feel not the slightest shame at seeing how fit everyone else is!).

I returned on court with a flourish as the GD (Goal Defender, naturally) and with some superb athleticism from Matt, kept our score flawless, and I even refrained from knocking Lexi off her feet several times. Unfortunately, my last overenthusiastic defense knocked the goal off kilter, and ensured a swollen ankle that took me off play. Flushed, sweaty and exhilarated, I hobble along with the now very well bonded team to the pub. A gradual wind down, a toast to our gauntlet thrower, a promise of making this an annual event and some ardent beseeching to the organisers of the next bonding event for something a little less physically demanding (and it wasn't even me! My vote's for contact sport..) and some hideous Marmite covered snacks later, I leave the party.

It is karma that my shower decides to go on strike and tepid water soon turns to freezing, scuttling my plans of a relaxing bath, and I'm left to minister a bag of frozen chips to my bulbous ankle as I ply myself with spaghetti with quattro formaggi, before contemplating a splint for my throbbing big toe, now cleverly disguised as a smurf. This morning, I ignore Pascale's suggestion that I stick to pilates as she spies my blue toe perkily peeking from my chappals at work and throw dirty looks at Mr. half a leg in a plastic brace on his rather rude comments about my footwear. Next time, I'll remember to cut my nails and get better fitting sneakers... Bring it on boys!