I would be lost without my smartphone.

Apparently I now live in Tshimbungu, according to my weather app. Now, neither I or spellcheck know where this place is. So I decided to look up a few facts about Tshimbungu, as one aught to know where they are located on a map.

Here follows ten facts about Tshimbungu, the place of many unknowns.

1. It’s located within the Democratic Republic of Congo, so it’s nice to know I’m hundreds of kilometres closer to the Ebola virus.

2. That’s it.

Well, that was fast. I could give you latitude, longitude, sea elevation and weather, but that’s no fun.

Seriously, 39,200 results and I can’t find anything interesting? You have failed me for the first and last time Google. I am embarrassed for you. You have brought shame on your family. Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelled of elderberries.

There, that showed Google. Now can I go back to my home in Australia. I don’t know where the closest airport to Tshimbungu is though…Dammit Google!

Tennis and the attack of the sweaty boob ball.

Red Alert, people!  I may have contracted some yet unknown disease.  Tonight I was playing my weekly tennis competition, which is full of either the quite young or foot in the coffin old ladies.  All was going well, the Triforce was shining down on me, then I noticed something during my opposition’s serve.  She was placing the spare ball in her bra.  I need to repeat that.  She was placing the TENNIS BALL in her BRA.  The very one that we all have to share.

The Triforce did not protect me this day.

Most people wear pants with pockets, or wear these special tennis ball holders, but not this dame.  She placed those brand spanking new tennis balls in her bra while she served.  Not only did it make her look oddly lopsided, but the sheen of sweat on her face did not bode well for the dryness of the ball lodged beneath her shirt.

Alas, I was right, for when I collected those balls for my service game, there was a distinct smell of sweat mingled with the weirdly addictive smell of new tennis ball.  I surreptitiously wiped my hand on my pants after each serve, hoping that the lady would not notice.

I managed my way through that game and it came around again for that lady to serve.  Once again, she placed the ball deep within her shirt and served away.  It was during this game that disaster struck. After an opening from my team mate, the other woman at the net sent the sweaty boob ball my way.  I couldn’t lift my racket in time to block it.

Sweaty boob ball hit me in the face.  Not so bad you say?  I got a mouthful of sweaty boob ball.  I could taste it.  I’m not sure whether you can contract diseases from such an attack, but I’ve booked an appointment with the doctor just in case.  It would be just my luck that I got an as yet unidentified illness.

I would call it sweatiboobalatea.  If I’m going to die from it, I get to name it.  It’s only fair.

If I don’t return to this blog, assume that I have died, start up a charity promoting awareness of sweatiboobalatea and create a social media challenge to raise money.  I suggest pouring a trailer full of (clean) tennis balls over your head.

Remember me.