Foopball night

Thursday – worked. I joined my colleagues in the hotel bar (with big screen TVs for their foopball enjoyment) for a couple of drinks. Adam, Rambill, Nicola and Craig sat up front in their foopball jerseys (mostly) looking terribly keen and intense, and Sam, Tom and I sat on the sofa at the back and managed to prove our general ignorance of foopball in general and the current competition in particular. I almost impressed the other two – they thought I was pointing out the England captain, but turns out that they couldn’t hear me properly and what I actually said was “he’s congratulating them” not “he’s the England captain”. Sam tried to describe the offside rule but I’m still in the dark and probably always will be. All I know about is being a lacrosse goalie, which means I get my own magic circle and no-one is allowed even one millimetre inside it. Mine. Out! People seemed fairly pleased on the outcome of the foopball match: even Adam who missed the first goal by seconds having just left the bar to take a short break in the Rest Room (they don’t let you rest in there… perhaps it should be named the Relief Room or something). I bowed out and went to my room just after the end of the match to make a phone call to wish Someone happy birthday.