How and why did I allow myself to be dragged into the Wildlife Centre’s volleyball team I’m not sure, though I am convinced there were beers involved.
Certainly there were beers involved on the night, when we all trooped down to The Shack, played four games of volleyball and LOST every single game. In seriously drastic fashion.
I thought I could hit a volleyball. Turns out I can’t. I was never convinced I could serve. Turns out I was right. But I was positive that I could lead a cheerleader chat for team Wildlife – give me a W, give me an I etc. Turns out I can’t and we’re now known as the WILFS. Which has a much more original ring to it, I think anyway.
As for the team uniform, we’re considering getting some caps from the local supermarket called Shoprite and scribbling out a few of the middle letters so it just spells SH…ITE.
After throwing myself around the court and doing a not so impressive lunge for the ball, the ‘sand’ (i.e. jagged rocks of death) has gouged out a chunk of leg and my shin is slowly turning a shade of midnight blue, to match the awesome bruises from my waterskiing on Lake Malawi over the weekend (thanks again to the lovely Tracey, Richard, Kate and Johnny for a wicked weekend of boats, waterskiing, interesting brownie recipes and the most gorgeous little cottage you’ve ever seen in your life).
However, the pit falls of socialising can be deep when you have to clean out dog kennels after a 3am finish the night before. The good news is that we now have someone else to do this – hurrah – so I’m off right now to enjoy a few greens (Carlsberg) at Mabuya Camp. My mum warned me not to get dehydrated in Africa …
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