Ting, ting

Playing sport with a boyfriend has never been something I've found particularly relaxing. Tennis games with both exes have ended in near break-ups and, in one case, a violent outburst that involved both tears and racket throwing. So when Simon suggested an hour's badminton, I wasn't optimistic.

Last night, at dinner with his flatmate, Simon announced we were playing the following day. He accompanied this statement with a) an unbearably faux-casual back and forth flick of the wrist to indicate a forehand/backhand motion and b) a simultaneous verbal effect along the lines of ‘Ting, ting,’ to suggest the pleasing sound of shuttlecock on racket. I struggled not to call it off there and then. It seemed inevitable that our first foray into a room with a net would be traumatic.

Things didn't improve when we began this morning with an aimless argument that started with a dream I'd had in which my mother had died, and concluded with a heated discussion about Gordon Ramsay. Thus, as we strode onto court number one at Brentford Fountain Leisure Centre at 2.45pm, sporting an odd assortment of bad shorts and ancient trainers that indicated clearly to all surrounding players that we were not accustomed to being active, I was feeling extremely apprehensive. Simon was walking with a previously unwitnessed spring in his step and a maniacal grin that only increased my nervousness.

We started to play. Simon was as keen as I've ever seen him about anything, sprinting for unreachable points and laughing regularly and heartily. I felt like the Ice Queen. I was happy to hit back if the shuttlecock arrived within my dance space, but lurching after one was beyond me. Running is never an activity I feel comfortable with, but under certain circumstances, for instance putting some distance between oneself and an angry swan, I am prepared to accept that breaking into a trot might be necessary. Chasing after a plastic and feather ice cream cone in Brentford is not one of those circumstances. Every time I lunged for the shuttlecock I felt increasingly absurd.

After about twenty minutes, however, my pride kicked in. Simon was still bounding about like a drunken gazelle and his infectious enthusiasm began to rub off on me. Gradually, I began to care. At half time, I even removed my tracksuit top - a clear indication that I was becoming emotionally involved. By 3pm, we had hit a rally of 50 and even played a competitive game without splitting up. Full marks go to my partner whose endless positivity saved the day. But I take equal credit for turning up at all: with previous sporting nightmares still ringing in my metaphorical ears, mustering the optimism required to take part at all was no mean feat. But against all the odds, far from being a hellish experience, we’re now talking about a weekly slot and buying our own rackets. I'm slightly superstitious about this financial commitment given the pair of rollerblades, tennis racket and bag of karate sparring gear gathering dust in my wardrobe, but the eternal joy of purchasing items that suggest that one is fit and active may persuade me. Ebay here we come.