Mixed emotions

No, not the marriage – the tennis partnership. Our Saturday morning ritual of playing mixed doubles together has come to a dramatic end.

I’ve always felt that playing mixed doubles together is the biggest test of a marriage and the strain has been showing for some time. The bottom line is that I blame my wife when we lose, and she blames me. I roll my eyes when she messes up and (although she’ll deny this) she rolls her eyes when I lose us a point. When you add the sighs, the silences, and the arguments over who was best placed to hit the ball, it’s just not worth it.

My wife’s view is that I shout “mine!” too often and take her shots.

My defence is that I’m very competitive and interceptions at the net are a crucial part of the game.

Anyway, it came to a head three weeks ago and it has taken until now for the wounds to heal and for me to pluck up the courage to write this column.

As usual, we were playing against Imi and Anne, two county-standard women, and I tried to intercept a ball at the net. One of our opponents reacted by lobbing the ball over my head and I instinctively ran back to retrieve it.

My wife had also run across from her side of the court to keep the rally going – and we collided. I knew straight away that there were going to be repercussions. The bad-tempered exchange, in front of players on other courts, went something like: Her: “You don’t have to take every ball, you know!”

Me: “Well, how am I supposed to know where you are if you don’t shout?”

There were a few more things said and then she walked off in tears, telling me she didn’t want to play with me any more. Feeling like the pantomime villain, I stomped away from the scene of my crime.

It’s four miles from New Blackwell Tennis Club, in Darlington, to our house in Hurworth, but I walked home in a massive sulk. No one came to give me a lift – presumably they were all consoling my wife in the clubhouse – and I kept getting splashed by lorries.

What I didn’t know at that stage was that a whopping great bruise was already forming on my wife’s arm where I’d bumped into her.

Three cold nights in the doghouse followed. We endured one of those periods where neither wants to be the first to speak, but I eventually gave in and said: “Sorry.”

For a moment, I thought she was going to reject the apology but then she replied: “It’s only tennis.”

“ONLY TENNIS? ONLY BLOODY TENNIS? I HAD TO WALK FOUR BLOODY MILES, GET SPLASHED BY BLOODY LORRIES, AND SPEND THREE NIGHTS FREEZING MY *@!@* OFF ON THE BLOODY SETTEE, AND YOU SAY IT’S ONLY BLOODY TENNIS.”

Okay, I admit that the previous sentence, written in capitals, was only shouted in my head. Had I said it out loud, it could easily have been a case of calling for “new balls please”.

What I actually said, very calmly, was: “Yes, you’re right, it’s only tennis – and I’m really sorry.”

So there we have it. We’ve agreed that, for the sake of our marriage, we will never play mixed doubles together again. She says it was her suggestion, I say it was mine. Anyway, it’s over.

The Monstrous Morals

EVERY parent out there will be aware that, whether we like it or not, children develop bad habits.

I have now launched a series of children’s books, called The Monstrous Morals, aimed at helping parents deal with those bad habits.

The first is called Fartin’ Martin Sidebottom – about a boy who thinks it’s funny to break wind. He ends up joining a wind orchestra which plays in front of The Queen at the Royal Albert Hall. Unfortunately, the kindly old gentleman who conducts the orchestra turns into the devil and a monstrous journey ensues.

The book (price £5.95) is in comic rhyme and superbly illustrated by artist David Wright.

We’ll be signing copies at Waterstone’s in the Cornmill Centre, Darlington, between noon and 2pm on Saturday, December 15. There’s a free whoopee cushion with the first 50 books sold.