Seven years ago, I became chair of the Frinton-on-Sea Lawn Tennis Club. Lovely title. Sounds grand. In reality, it’s like being prime minister of a banana republic. Except the bananas sometimes complain about the heating, the lack of courts, and the subs.
Board meetings can resemble hostage negotiations: everyone wants something fixed and assumes we’ll conjure cash from thin air. The issues are endless: the pool goes cloudy if you glance away and now we need an extra ￡30,000 because the chancellor bumped up national insurance. There are staffing headaches, membership woes, events to organise, health and safety incidents, and accounts that develop black holes, swallowing cash faster than a City banker drains champagne at bonus time.
And through it all, I’ve had one nagging thought: I couldn’t play tennis very well. I’m in charge of a tennis club, yet my backhand looked like I was hailing a taxi in a hurricane. So, a few years ago, I did the decent thing: I booked lessons with head coach Pete.