trente-quatre: des pongistes et des lecteurs.

So ridiculously close to averaging a first in my first year of university. But I passed, and frankly, for my first year that was full of upsets and traumas, that should be good enough. Unfortunately, I'm a perfectionist.

Nevertheless, a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. And now I'm free to enjoy my summer, which has so far been filled with reading, days out and spending time with family, friends and Martin. Until Saturday, when we encountered les pongistes.

Table tennis is way cooler than ordinary tennis. For one, you don't really get any overly epic matches in table tennis, i.e. boring rallies which carry on for hours, as was seen in Wimbledon this year. I just can't cope with that kind of thing. Luckily for me, my boyfriend prefers the version played on tables, which is much more exciting and doesn't drag on for an eternity. In fact, watching him play at the Doncaster Open last Saturday was one of the only times in my life that I've actually enjoyed watching a sport. Usually I just don't get it

It did incite me to commit murder though.

The object of my homicidal intentions was a highly irritating coach of a kid that Martin was playing in one of his groups. This kid wasn't exactly overly confident and thus aggravating, but in contrast his coach on the sidelines was, choosing to clap every time his protégé got a point instead of Martin. He clapped insanely loudly. I was furious. In fact, I was so enraged that I decided to retaliate and clap when Martin got a point... but my clapping was muffled by my hay-fever induced tissue. Oops. It must have worked though because Martin won so NER NER NER NERRRR stupid arrogant coach man. Martin did really well throughout the tournament, especially in beating this guy who had a high rating very easily, and although he did have a "quick sulk" as he puts it, compared to the majority of tense players present at this competition (a trait which I had never witnessed in table tennis players before, usually calm and gentle souls), he remained positive and relatively stress-free. Compared to that stroppy pre-pubescent teenager he played at one point his disappointment was nothing, thank goodness I never have to be fourteen again is all I'm saying. Anyways, I'm proud so there

Et les lecteurs...

Desperate for a bit of valuable work experience, I recently contacted my local library to see if they could do anything for me, and their solution was to participate in therapeutic reading groups. My response: huhhh? Their response: come to the staff meeting, it might make a bit more sense. So I did. Today.

After this meeting, I was whisked away to Nelson to observe such an example of this innovation. I watched as a small group of elderly people were read a short story and a poem, and the way they engaged with it and conversed about memories gone by was pretty extraordinary. Although I usually feel uncomfortable all of the time, especially with this kind of thing, I felt quite sentimental for some reason during the whole time I was there. I think it's because in the glistening eyes of the tender aged, I sometimes see my grandma