Painballing:

Dave and I caught the bus out to Dalmahoy after work on Tuesday. This was because Zoë told us, and I quote:

Stuart has kindly offered to give me a lift to Dalmahoy and he can take me and one other of us back into town.

The bus sailed (well, drove) straight past the 'Skirmish Scotland' banners and stopped two miles past it. At Dalmahoy. We got out. We ran back down the road, sweating and swearing.

Dave, Josh, Zoë and I were on the red team, and our guns had red paintball hoppers. Once we'd been issued with our camouflage romper suits and goggles, the fun began and we dived into bushes, firing at random into the greenery and shouting "Charlie! In the trees!"

About five minutes into each game, the goggles would be completely misted up with sweat and exhaled breath. Kind of like a deeply unpleasant miniature sauna for your face. Eventually it became an almost existential experience: is that disembodied green blob a green team paintball hopper? Shall I shoot it? (Invariably yes: <pock pock pock> "Ouch ouch ouch! Stop!") Where am I? Who am I? Does it really matter?

And then splat! A paintball or five would explode against your thigh or head and drag you back to the horror of paint-war.

There was a barbeque after it. Sweet.