Just Call Me Sharon

I played a game of netball last night.
It was fun in a horrible sort of way. First I got a uniform: bright orange netball skirt: size 20! and it just fitted! In normal clothes, I wear an Australian 12 or so. (Where does Sharon from Kath and Kim buy her skirts?) Then I got a black (not white, yes yes yes!) polo shirt. Fortunately the giant skirt was longer than the average netball skirt, to the relief of the random guys watching the game from an old commodore with dark tinted windows. It wouldn't have mattered how short it was, because I invested in a giant pair of full briefs just in case I flashed anyone.
Then I had to actually play. The referee very kindly explained to me all the rules I was breaking, and the rest of my team didn't sigh too loudly when I let the other team get goals and/or actually threw the ball out of the court. The goal shooter I was defending came up to my elbows, which didn't make it any easier for me because she just shot goals underneath my flailing arms.
Any guy who thinks netball is hot should not come and see me play. My hair plastered itself to my head, my face went the colour of tomato paste and I found myself swearing under my breath like a really coarse wharfie. I was so unfit that by the end of the first quarter I just wanted to pass out then and there. My lungs felt like I had just inhaled hot coals.
The other team were totally laughing at me. Of course, it could just be my interpretation that the other team were evil bitch molls and my team were all top sheilas.
Afterwards I borrowed anti-inflamatory drugs from my poor arthritic old mother to help the pain in my poor injured body. The drugs caused me to hallucinate that there was a mummified body on my bedroom floor with staring eyes.
I can barely walk today. And I have to go to training again on Wednesday. Hopefully, that will be fun in a slightly less horrible way. If I go.