March 2017

[Sweder]

I popped out for a short jaunt in between flights on Sunday morning.
In from Shanghai on Saturday evening, startled to see my son on the roadside, having just been parted from his motorcycle on the A27. We stopped, he was OK, ambulance crew checked him out as I made arrangements to have his hemi-powered drone retrieved. My wobble around the chalk pits was enlivened by losing not one but both hounds, albeit temporarily, on separate occasions. Spring has sprung, bring with it olfactory distractions amongst the thickening woodland. My frantic, breathless half-whistle-searching added a much-needed, if slightly awkward, kilomnetre to the session.

Out again Sunday night, to Rotterdam, after watching the Rookettes scrap their way to a tough 3-0 win over the 'ladies' from CK Basildon in front of 168 mostly happy souls. Mostly, that is, apart from the cat in the (bobble) hat who infomred me I was 'a twat' for calling for action when CKB's most combative midfielder, Jay Blackie, landed her knee firmly, unnecessarily and late, in the backside of our goal keeper. We exchanged pleasantries, but, as ever in football when things go your way, my team did my talking for me, and the woolly-headed mouthpiece fell silent.

One of my goals this summer is to play a part in bringing the masses to this spectacle. It's NOT the same as men's football; it's better. Less hystrionics, more genuine endeavour, the only 'cheating' the occasional over-zealous challenge designed to dominate rather than injure, no shorftage of skill or drama. Plans are a-foot, as we say in these parts. If we only achieve half of what we're aiming for, you'll be hearing a lot more about us, and not necessarily just here.  
Match report here.

Rotterdam is where I am still, learning of yet another British Airways foul-up. I may be here until tomorrow. C'est la vie, as our European neighbours would say. I've plenty of reading to catch up on, not least over at MLCMMan's diary, where he must be on the cusp of publishing The MLCMAN Diaries, Volume II: The Charlie Cat Years. Blistering, no doubt.