“Let’s sit out on the deck for our morning tea, dogs,” I announced at 6:00 AM, sliding open the patio doors to discover virtually no temperature difference between the warmth of the house and the crisp morning air outside.
Early morning has always been my favourite hour of the day. Sitting on the deck as daybreak approaches, surrounded by the morning chorus, provides my very first hit of serotonin. The rustle of wind through the trees creates a soothing backdrop for the waking birds. A flock of crows glides overhead on their way to daily foraging grounds, while the alarmist local blackbirds squawk in panic at the slightest imaginary threat. Suddenly, a robin bursts into loud, shrill song from the edge of the woods, completely drowning out the blackbirds’ frantic cries.
For years, I dreamt of finding a sanctuary where I could sit, relax, and simply observe nature unfolding at dawn. This deck is the perfect place. Even Moog and Chic sit quietly beside me, gazing into the garden, their ears twitching and rotating like little radar dishes as they tune into the morning soundscape.
By mid-morning, however, my peaceful deck contemplation was violently interrupted by WhatsApp, which was buzzing frantically following last night’s defeat against one of the division’s top, undefeated teams.
The chat was a chaotic mixture of team commiserations. There were the usual gentle messages designed to soften the blow, alongside a rant from one particularly disgruntled teammate who sounded on the verge of taking a jigsaw to his table tennis bat. Naturally, there were also several philosophical rallying cries aimed at restoring morale—including time-tested classics like “It’s all part of the journey,” “Irritation provides motivation,” and “Let’s regroup and debrief at club.” These last ones were mostly authored by me, having navigated these post-match emotional wreckage sites many times before.
Seeking a sanctuary from the group chat, I picked up my bat, fired up the table tennis practice robot, and worked on my forehand strokes while Karen headed off to her ‘Yogalaties’ class.
Yogalaties is supposedly a hybrid of Yoga and Pilates, though to my ear it sounds remarkably like a new brand of health-conscious breakfast cereal. I am forever haunted by a mental image of a group sitting cross-legged on matting, listening to traditional Indian chanting while devouring a bowl of crunchy whole-grains.
Given that Karen always returns home carrying a rolled-up yoga mat and looking thoroughly exhausted, I can only assume the bowls and spoons are provided.
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