On the beautiful game

I went to a girls' school, where we were only allowed near a ball when we were wearing skirts that preserved the modesty of our knees, and then to a specialist ballet school, which viewed sport with great distaste. Therefore, the magic of the game of football has remained a mystery to me thus far in my life. Until today. Today, at lunchtime, the balding, paunchy, middle-aged men that work in the sales office I have recently joined as a way to fund further drama classes, trooped off to the local football field and very grudgingly allowed me and another girl to make up the numbers of the teams. Carla, a plucky young Australian, at least has the benefit of three older brothers. I have no such advantage and couldn't explain the offside rule with a gun held to my head. But we were both keen. And we outran our puffing bosses without breaking a sweat; it felt as though I'd been playing all my life. Alright, so I tended to misread plays and couldn't trust my feet to send the ball to the right man and not accidentally tip it onto the foot of the danger man (James, the quiet lad from Accounts) of the opposing team. But I understood the idea and I loved the feeling of being one small part of a whole with a common desire. Netball never had quite the same swerve and sway. The strategy and skill involved are fascinating, and a whole new world of challenging possibilities has blossomed before me. The only problem I face now is working out where the hell I'm going to find time to play the game in between ballet classes, marathons, Shakespeare workshops, jazz, tap, running races, singing lessons, ironing my husband's shirts, editing my next audio book and working 9 to 5. And, of course, once in a while sitting down to a a good book and spending a bit of time with my poor neglected husband...