Tennis

Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are booked into a tennis club all this week. It's cost an arm and a leg so they're going, whatever the weather; ill, squabbling, wounded; no matter.

Things are tight at the Pile right now. No money's yet come in from the work I sit and miserably complete, but plenty's going out, paying for trips here, there and everywhere, when it's not being used for essential items like three pairs of new plimsols and a Viking braiding disk.

It has to be said that a week of tennis lessons won't make any difference whatsoever to any junior Grit's tennis skills. It's a triumph and a cause for celebration if any one of them manages to hit a ball with a racquet at all. Then after the hurrah comes the jealousies and the rages because it was a sister that managed to hit the ball and usually, that's not fair.

So Grit's feeling down in the dumps again after a fun weekend. Probably without cause or justification. Perhaps it really is the bank account that's bringing me down. Or perhaps it's the knowledge of the practical reality involved in getting Shark, Squirrel and Tiger promptly out of the house to the tennis courts at 10.30 every morning. Perhaps it's the thought of the consequence of Shark hitting the ball, and Tiger missing. Or perhaps it's the thought of another week with Sasha.

Well, I'll look on the bright side.

I'm sure I can find one somewhere.