There is a ping pong tournament going on at work, and, work being what it is, this means that a ping pong committee has been set up, the health and safety risks of playing table tennis have been diligently distributed, and there is every chance that the tournament will be won by someone actually called Ping.

Sadly I don’t think my presence will be required in the latter stages of the competition. My game has enough ping but not quite enough pong to take me through. I have played three matches so far, and the results have been: England 2 Japan 0,  England 2 USA 1 (so far so good) but England 0 Germany 2 (sorry, I tried my best). Yes, I have been beaten by our department’s resident pinball wizard. The only points I won off her were when her attempts at a smash were so demented that she missed the table completely and put ping pong ball-shaped dents into the artwork on the walls instead.

Still, I like playing with her because she’s the only colleague to swear as much as I do – there were constant shouts of “crap”, “shit” and, somewhat alarmingly, “CREAM ME!”. Despite my best intentions, I continue to swear inappropriately at work.  While we were playing some people came to watch (how tedious) and one of them asked, “What’s happening?” “What’s happening is that I’m getting my arse whipped,” I said cheerfully. I don’t think these words have ever been uttered in these particularly corridors of power before. They were received in utter silence – aside from the pinball wizard muttering “shoot” as she buried another ball into the plasterwork.

Have a dead rubber tomorrow. Wish me bl**dy good luck.