Forwards and occasionally sidewards – everyday musings of life

Half the hallway floor was laid this morning before we even realised the LVT Monks had arrived. There must be an unwritten rule banning noisy power tools from their vans. They smiled, shook their heads politely when offered refreshments, and glided around on extra-cushioned knee pads—almost floating silently across their latest work of art.

It occurred to me that when they aren’t transforming subfloors into geometric masterpieces, these guys must be responsible for the local crop circles. It’s the exact same skill set: operating strictly under the cover of darkness, leaving no trace of their arrival, working in absolute silence, and flattening complex patterns into the Wiltshire landscape before vanishing without a word.

As Karen left for work, she thoughtfully set the smart speaker to play Enigma, thinking the dogs would chill out and the fitters would appreciate the ethereal, Gregorian-chant-infused synths echoing gently through the house.

Meanwhile, I was getting ready for my weekly table tennis practice and a one-to-one session with our local coach. I mentally prepared myself to confess that I’d officially come out of the closet with my penhold grip.

Our local coach—let’s call him The Strategist—is highly professional and vastly experienced. He’s well used to dealing with all types of players, challenges, and unorthodox quirks. Even so, I was intrigued to see how he would handle a left-handed, 60-plus-year-old with the ambition of a teenager who had just made a full public confession about his playing style.

The Strategist was his usual calm, unflustered self. Being a sharp observer, he’d already spotted me experimenting during the morning open session. He listened intently as I explained the reasoning behind the switch and my recent session with the coach in London. I just hoped it didn’t sound like a string of flimsy excuses, or that he’d feel put out that I’d sought advice elsewhere.

Far from it. After sharing his own experience coaching penhold players and running through the tactical pros—with zero cons mentioned, as he’s far too professional for that—we kicked off with a standard forehand rally.

As the pace picked up, my true technique was laid bare. The Strategist immediately picked up on the technical flaws.

He focused the entire hour on rebuilding that single shot. Suddenly, there was an overwhelming checklist to manage: footwork, hip rotation, bat angle, wrist snap, and split-second timing. The “fun” grip I’d been casually enjoying was abruptly turning into serious, high-intensity labour.

By the end of the 60 minutes, I was completely out of breath and sweating like a contestant on a Sunday night game show. A tiny, paranoid part of me wondered if this brutal workout was subtle payback for consulting another coach… but no, surely not. He’s far too professional for that.