“That’s a lot of people playing pickleball.”
Tom says it the way one might comment on a surprising number of flamingos, with a mix of mild awe and slight confusion. He’s leaning on a bench, one hand gripping his camera like a filmmaker embedded in a particularly enthusiastic sports documentary, the other dragging through his hair as if searching for answers. Between him, Head Coach Victor, and me, we’re hosting a spring corporate offsite for a large global financial services firm.
Tom might be a bit surprised, but Victor and I have been running these events for a long time and have got it down to a fine art. In this case, we have forty-four people organised neatly into a round-robin tournament that’s working like a well-oiled machine. Sure, there’s always at least one person who takes it all far more seriously than is socially acceptable, but the logistical back-and-forth between Victor and me is like watching MJ and Scottie Pippen go at it together.
We wrap at 8:30pm. By that point, I’ve been on the go for 14 hours, consumed roughly the caffeine equivalent of a small petrol station, and still haven’t finished the day. If anyone is under the impression that running a club is all sunshine, social rallies, and gently clinking Aperol Spritz glasses, allow me to shatter that illusion.
But before diving into the chaos that unfolded between sunrise and sunset, a brief and entirely unsubtle plug: our corporate events are, dare I say it, excellent. We’ve refined the format so everyone gets meaningful playing time without it descending into Lord of the Flies with paddles. Peak season is approaching, the calendar is filling up, but there’s still room for more bookings. Whether it’s a relaxed team social or a more structured offsite, drop us a line at info@kensingtonpickleballclub.co.uk.
“Write down your details on paper.”
At 3pm, I find myself in the council offices, which feel less like a place of administrative efficiency and more like a live-action study in patience. To my left, a baby is testing the upper limits of human vocal range. To my right, someone is passionately explaining (at volume) that they have indeed been paying council tax, despite the missing records that indicate otherwise.
I’m here for our premises licence, which is the final box to tick before we can legally pour our first pint. A small but significant milestone, slightly undermined by the fact we don’t yet have a bar installed. Details, details.
The twist? The council suffered a major cybersecurity attack back in November. We are now in April. Some systems are still offline, including the one used for licence applications. Which is why I am here, in person, filling out forms with a pen like it’s 1997.
There is something oddly reassuring about it. I’m fairly confident a Russian hacking collective is not currently targeting my handwritten declaration about where we plan to serve Moscow Mules. On the flip side, it does raise questions about how well the council is able to operate. Still, I dutifully complete the paperwork, smile politely, and give the baby a small wave on my way out, as if we’ve just shared something meaningful.
“We gotta figure out the acoustic levels.”
Rewind to 11am. A noise assessment consultant is pacing around the facility with equipment that looks expensive enough to measure the emotional tone of a room, not just the decibel level. This, I’m told, is another “tick-box exercise.” A phrase I’ve learned usually means “you don’t fully understand it, but it’s important, so just nod.”
Apparently, this assessment protects us from a range of potential issues, including noise-induced workplace injuries. I briefly consider what that might look like. A particularly aggressive rally? A paddle strike gone rogue? Or perhaps prolonged exposure to Jonathan singing Justin Bieber in the car, which I can confirm has caused lasting damage. It’s primarily emotional, but still.
Good news does arrive, though. The roofing insulation is finally being completed. It’s taken longer than expected, but a proper roof is non-negotiable. You can’t run a premium facility with a ceiling that behaves like a colander. So, progress. Actual, tangible progress. Vamos.
“There’s way more in the truck.”
It’s 9am, and a rather puzzled DHL delivery driver is stood in front of my door with what can only be described as a mountain of boxes containing product from one of our partners.
This is product for our upcoming Founding Membership launch, which includes goody bags. In practice, they are currently occupying 97% of my one-bedroom flat.
In a moment of what can only be described as strategic oversight, I had the delivery sent to my home rather than the facility or, say, literally anywhere else. So now, for ten minutes, I assist in unloading what feels like an entire warehouse into a space previously reserved for normal human activities.
At one point, I briefly consider constructing an igloo out of the boxes and living inside it. It seems viable. Possibly even peaceful. But then I remember I’m in my 30s, allegedly a responsible adult, and dismiss the idea. Regretfully.
Still, the Founding Membership launch is going to be big. Exciting, even. And if the price of that excitement is temporarily living in a cardboard fortress, so be it.
“The Uno Reverse Card.”
7am. The day begins. I’m holding my first coffee. It’s technically an espresso, but emotionally a lifeline. The sun is out. My phone is already buzzing with messages, but there’s a sense of optimism in the air. It feels like one of those days where everything might just click.
Instead, it unfolds like a carefully constructed domino run. And yet, somehow, by 8:30pm, we end up with everybody going home very satisfied.
And Tom is still there, camera in hand, looking at it all like he’s just witnessed something between a sporting event and a social experiment.
“That’s a lot of people playing pickleball.”
Yes, Tom. Yes it is.