Alas, I’m neither in Poland nor Ukraine. For my sins, I’m being sent instead to some tennis tournament in Halle, near Bielefeld, hardly Germany’s most exotic destination.
My boss is in Ukraine, and just about every other journalist I know is at the Euro2012 party, sending tweets every five seconds to rub it in.
But things are bad and money has to be saved in times of austerity and severe penance. So I’m covering tennis.
Tennis! I’ve been reading up on it so I can at least pretend I know what I’m writing about. It’s just two people whacking a ball over a net to each other, but they’ve come up with all manner of fancy names and weird terminology to make it seem more complicated/interesting.
To make matters worse it’s only men’s tennis. I haven’t even the consolation of eye-candy and all the grunting will be deep and husky. I imagine it will be quite grating after a while.
But I know I’m complaining from a privileged position. Some people actually like tennis and though it’s not the most glamorous assignment, it’ll help pay the bills and put cheese on the table for the raving cheese-eating monster at home.
At least the matches should be over before the real games kick off and (I hope) I’ll get to see them too.
"Irland wird Europameister!" writes Die Tageszeitung today. Oh how I’d love to be there.