Ding-dong at the Ping-pong

7th August

I’m not quite sure how I’ve ended up with only three shifts left. Time’s flown by.

I’ve become quite spoiled in terms of wanting the plum jobs. I think the fact I’m a volunteer, coupled with my delusion that without me, the entire thirtieth Olympiad would collapse like the Roman Empire, has led to me refusing to do any jobs that don’t involve failed popstars or watching sport.

Heavy stuff

Unfortunately, my internal hissy fit did nothing to prevent me being put on the most dull of dull jobs; checking accreditations right in the depths of the table-tennis arena. China vs Japan- a ding-dong in the ping-pong.

I did my best to cause diplomatic incidents on two occasions in order to spice things up. Firstly, I refused the Japanese silver medallist entry to the doping area (she didn’t have the right pass), and secondly, when I wouldn’t let a Russian/Kazakh/Soviet into the lift (same reason).

I don’t speak Soviet beyond a loose grasp of the works of Chekhov, but I’m willing to bet quite a lot of Roubles that he swore quite rudely at me. I’ve never been sworn at in a foreign language, but it’s infinitely more terrifying and rumbling than being called ‘dick-head’ by a spotty English chav. I thought he might have been putting a hex on me.

I also managed to get close to a gold medal, something to tick off the bucket list, along with meeting one of One Direction. Quite an odd feeling, as for about fifteen seconds it felt like I was at the epicentre of a world. Admittedly it was the table-tennis world, but still.

Balls to the Official Partners

There’s a running joke amongst volunteers about the Official Partners, and I briefly, in a moment of anti-games maker rebelliousness, blew the corporate world apart when I strode manfully into a KFC and ordered a Pepsi to go with my food. I was still in my uniform. Bold as brass. The cheek of it!

#DoWhatIWant