Disclaimer
This blog reflects personal experiences, mild exaggerations, and the coping mechanisms of an NHS household during half term. No Upper GI colleagues were intentionally ignored (well… not intentionally). All sporting results are reported with parental bias, selective memory, and the emotional volatility typical of junior tennis. No clinical advice is given here. If symptoms of half-term exhaustion persist, consider tea, biscuits, and temporarily muting WhatsApp groups.
Half term in our household traditionally means one thing.
Sport.
More sport.
And just when you think there might be a quiet day… even more sport.
After last weekend’s excursion to Ninja Warrior Bristol — which, for the record, is a far superior alternative to Flip Out in Wellington — we made it safely into Monday.
The day began peacefully. Too peacefully.
Then came a text from my wife, who was at work:
“Upper GI team is looking for you.”
A short but frank WhatsApp message in the team group clarified the situation:
“I am on annual leave.”
I did briefly wonder whether a small degree of panic had broken out. It was a post–on-call Monday after all. However, once I muted the group chat, the situation appeared to resolve itself remarkably well.
Sometimes leadership is about setting clear boundaries.
Sometimes it’s about the mute button.
Monday itself was relatively relaxed. Our son completed some homework — reluctantly, but importantly, completed.
This involved Edshed and a guitar-based maths app. I remain slightly suspicious of educational tools that look like computer games, mainly because none of these existed when I was at school.
To be fair, the internet barely existed when I was at school.
Monday evening brought the usual martial arts session. Attendance was lower than usual.
Half term. Even young martial artists occasionally rest.
Tuesday was my wife’s day off, which meant one thing:
Back to Ninja Warrior.
The plan was simple: the 11am session, followed by either We The Curious or Tyntesfield if energy levels allowed.
If you’ve seen Ninja Warrior — the TV show or YouTube clips — you’ll know the obstacle courses are designed by people who clearly hold a grudge against the human upper body.
The Bristol venue has three courses of increasing difficulty, all culminating in the wall.
After several attempts, we did beat the walls.
However, two hours of climbing, jumping, hanging, and discovering muscles that had been dormant since approximately 1998 left me with upper limbs that can only be described as deeply unhappy.
Brutal. Absolutely brutal.
By Wednesday, it was almost a relief to go back to work.
Partly because I had agreed to deliver the usual surgical teaching session (James, our registrar, is admirably persistent), and partly because I had pancreatic cyst and ambulatory pancreatitis clinics.
Also, if I’m being honest, I had not cancelled my clinics eight weeks in advance as required.
Professional planning meets half-term reality.
An additional advantage was that this excused me from taking our son to a tennis tournament in Bridgwater. The event had been booked months earlier, in optimistic anticipation of British weather improving.
It did not.
After weeks of relentless rain, flood warnings, and potholes large enough to qualify as minor geographical features, the referee announced a 7am decision email.
The email arrived just as I left for work.
Tournament on.
Nine of ten players turned up, including Somerset teammates Henry and Charlie.
Format: single tie-break to 10.
Results (as reported by my wife, who had the emotional privilege of attending):
- Lost to Charlie: 4–10
- Beat Roscoe: 11–9
- Beat Arthur: 10–5
Second in the group behind Charlie.
Semi-final: lost to Henry.
3rd place match: again against Charlie.
At 4–9 down, our son saved five match points to reach 9–9, before eventually losing 11–13.
Tenacity.
Possibly stubbornness.
Definitely genetic.
Henry went on to win the event — well deserved.
Thursday was my turn.
Because apparently one tournament per week is for amateurs.
The U9 Dragon Tour in Burnham had been entered after one of those emails that says, “We’re looking for players.”
Between Bridgwater already booked and our son’s weekly coach Eric Bogdan available for a lunchtime session, the schedule became:
12:00–13:00 – Individual lesson (serve work)
13:00 – Quick McDonald’s pitstop
13:45 – Tournament start
The lesson went well. The hour flew by while I sat in the warm car, appreciating the rare sensation of being stationary.
The weather was holding. Meaning: not raining, but windy enough to affect anything lighter than a small child.
At Burnham, Tim Seymour ran separate boys’ and girls’ events. Ten boys, two groups, top two through.
Results:
- Beat Oskar (U8): 7–1, 7–3
- Lost to Henry: 3–7, 2–7 (tears briefly observed, recovery commendably rapid)
- Beat Finn: 7–2, 7–1
- Beat Emerys: 7–1, 7–1
Second in the group behind Henry.
Semi-final: vs Edward Smith
7–4, 1–7, 7–5
A mid-match wobble required calming techniques and some encouraging words from the referee, for which I later expressed my thanks. Junior sport is as much emotional regulation training as it is technical development.
Final: vs Zachary
A tight three-set match, eventually lost:
7–4, 4–7, 7–4
Silver medal.
After a full day of tennis, wind, parental thermos management, and emotional oscillation, we headed home.
Henry’s mum, who had attended both days of outdoor tennis, did comment that I had probably drawn the better weather deal.
She was correct.
And that, in summary, was half term.
Obstacle courses.
Upper limb failure.
WhatsApp avoidance.
Clinics that weren’t cancelled.
Two tennis tournaments.
One silver medal.
And a growing suspicion that “school holidays” is a phrase invented by people without children.
More to come.
But for this entry… this will do.
Pseudocyst 
What do you think?