An Idiot's Guide To Cock Smashing. Or Husband Smashing. Whatever Works For You.

The tingle running up and down your spine that you used to have on every first day of school? Yes that's it. The notion that you've forgotten everything you've learned the previous year and the sinking feeling that you'd have to start all over? That's exactly it.

Rusty. You could almost feel the hinges of your joints squeak-creaking like the heavy doors in all those horror movies. Your palms are clammy and your grip slips...

Swoosh! You slice the air...and the cock sails harmlessly across your head, its crown feathers tittering in your ear in the mocking sing-song

(you'll never catch me... you'll never catch me...)

of kids who used to goad you at playground tag.

"Aifee, eyes on the ball!” Atch hisses through gritted teeth. “Move your feet!”

The score is 11 – 2 in favor of the opposing team and Atch is losing face in a big way.

It is our first badminton game in three years and we are playing doubles against two of Atch’s co-workers. Two of Atch’s young co-workers. They are lithe and quick and energetic, and above all, (did I mentioned this before?) young. How I envy their quicksilver forehands and monumental smashes. They rush forward and lunge and sidestep, their feet seeming like blurs on the rubberized court. They also call me “Ma’am”. (Oh, the shame!)

Finally, the game is over. The opposing dream team has won, 15 – 2. We walk back to the bench. I am out of breath and my cheeks are on fire. Atch has put on his poker face, but I can feel him seething, seething, seething.

So like Atchbund to make me feel unworthy without uttering so much as a word. I look at him and suddenly my crumpled self-esteem manages a modicum of outrage. “I haven't played in a long while, Atch, “ I blurt out defensively. “I haven't even had time to practice.”

“I know.”

His face remains as impassive as any heavily pancaked Japanese geisha's and so I try again.

“Its just a game, Atch, why are you acting like it's a life and death thing?”

Atch looks at me like I should know better, “its competition, Aifee. You just need to concentrate.”

What?! I join your frooking badminton game to have some fun and to raise my heart rate a little

(said heart rate not having risen this much since you got me knocked-up for the second time)

and I get the old “le visage blanche” for my trouble?

I immediately feel like putting his face through the strings of my old reliable second-hand Dunlop and I tell him as much.

“So why don't you?” He is bullish. The Atch-hole.

On the drive home, after half an hour of silence, Atch reaches out to give my hand a reassuring pat, “You just need to concentrate more, that's all.” And after a pause, “'Wuv-wuv, Aif!”

Remaining quarrelsome and resentful, I glare at him.

The following weekend when we go out to buy some newly-pirated 8-in-1 DVD's, I get a copy of the Badminton For Everyone. I make him pay for it.

He does.