My un-retirement match of Badminton couldn't have started any better. Carl had forgotten his kit and was playing in jeans, severely restricting his movement and his Polish-bride-to-be-of-unknown-immigrational-status, or Ania as the rest of us call her, had never played before. I make a mental note to smash the shuttlecock very hard and directly at her in an attempt to gain a psychological edge.

It all began well. As Ania got to grips with having to hit the shuttlecock over the net and not into it, I bullied my way to superiority. And then the grudge match, with the playing field leveled by my aerodynamic skin tight sleevless shirt and Carl's limited ability to cover the court, we started to play. And I was right, the jeans did restrict his movement. He stood in the centre of the court hitting the shuttlecock back to me every time while I ran around covering every inch of the court.

We played "Winner stays on" until after 30 minutes, Carl became tired and Ania and I played again. During this time, she had mysteriously improved into some sort of badminton playing machine. In the final stretch, we combined our skills to jointly tackle the Evil Over-Lord of Badminton Darkness. Working together like a well oiled 1989 Moris Minor, we were toyed with until Carl ended each point with a shot which was ambiguously hit between us causing neither of us to try and hit it.

And then back to mine for Pizza. Maybe I took my humiliation on the badminton court too seriously but lacing their pizza with a laxative gave me the moral victory.