Issue 394 - Big Girls Playing Rugby

Hi,
I hope all is well where you are, and that if you celebrate it, your Thanksgiving is/was good.
I've been giving thanks that I have stopped being sick.

I was out running on Thursday when I suddenly had a feeling in my stomach which didn't feel quite right.
'Hello,' I thought, 'that doesn't feel quite right.'

I ploughed on, and felt like I had recovered, but as the day wore on I felt worse and worse.
Going to bed early didn't help, and it wasn't long before the first technicolour yawn.
In fact, technicolour yawn doesn't quite do it, it was more of technicolour speech.
In fact, more of a technicolour lecture.
In fact, more of a technicolour seminar, are you with me?

I'm still feeling a bit fragile today, but I won't complain, lest I come across as a big girl's blouse.

Speaking of big girls, there was a petty incident over the weekend, and I suspect it was a case of men acting like big girls.

New Zealand were playing rugby against Wales.
It's a fixture with a long tradition, and an equally long tradition is the haka, the tribal chant which New Zealand teams perform before games.

On Saturday though it was nowhere to be seen.
The anticipation of the crowd was there, but the players just lined up in their normal playing positions and the game started.

It turns out that the haka was not performed because of an argument about protocol, i.e. who would go last in the preliminaries.

Hmm...
I must do some investigating to find out more about it, but why do I get the feeling that it was men having little power play arguments with each other?

It's easy to let the petty seem more significant than it really is, but as in this case, it can overwhelm and ruin something which is bigger and should have taken preference.
The sporting spectacle of the haka should not have been lost to petty arguments, but it was.

Ok, it's a quickie this week, but the point is a good'un - don't lose sight of what's really important amidst the petty.

Have a good week.'
'Til Next Time,
Health and Happiness,
Gordon
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