Deuce-Love-Adieu

Philippa and I played tennis yesterday.
For two hours.
I can barely move.
I turned up full of enthusiasm and pasta. Philippa turned up in a sporty dress with her hair tied up, and armed with an expensive looking racquet.
She looked fantastic. I spent most of the first hour distracted by her athleticism and her legs.
After about 15 minutes, I realised just how hard a game it is to play.
How the Hell Isner and Mahut played all day without dying is remarkable.
It took me six attempts to get a serve over the net, and then Philippa whacked it back past me before I'd even had a chance to stand up straight.
I lost the first set 6-0, and the second set 6-3, and I think she was going easy on me.
I crawled off the court like a defeated wrestler, soaked to the skin and panting like a cat in the sun; Philippa skipped off the court with not one bead of sweat on her beautiful brow.
It's a stupid game, and one I have no interest in playing ever again.
My right shoulder feels like someone has filled the socket with gravel.
A few minutes ago, I asked Philippa if she could give me a massage, considering it was her stupid fault I'm in agony. She just smiled sweetly and told me to get on with my work. I told her it was hard to process orders on the computer when I can barely lift my hand onto the mouse. She told me if my activities away from work were hindering my ability to do my job then maybe I should consider changing them. I said "Damn straight I'm changing them. I'm never playing tennis with you again for a start. You're like a Caucasian Williams sister."
She told me not to forget my place.
The power is going to her head, and it's making her unbearable.
I want a bag of ice for my shoulder, and a new job.

RC 19-7-10