Arg from Towie, right?

Wrong Annabel, very very wrong.  Arg meaning the beautiful latin American country of Argentina in fact.  The country I love thanks to Evita and sexy dancing and beautiful music and food and Argentinean wine.  But this Arg was referring to the Argentina as in the rugby team, at the Rugby World Cup 2011.

It was England’s first game and my parents, the boyfriend and I were crammed into a Premier Inn hotel room devouring every movement of the England rugby team.  I was devouring my book.  The angry shouts of Jonny Wilkinson missing four kicks and the elated whoops as penalties and tries came to play occurred around me as I sat in the corner, head in my book, occasionally glancing up to see if Toby Flood had come on yet, if which did occur the book would have been snapped shut and I would have ogled at Flood the whole time.  But Alas, my novel won the war.

It’s not that I’m not interested in rugby, I am.  I care about where the rugby is being played, I’m envious of the tipsy spectators in fancy dress, I’m very interested in how the rugby players look and their names; some have fascinating names.  But despite the rugby playing boyfriend and the rugby loving family, I don’t know the positions, I think a fly half is a kind of bug and a flanker is a brand of horse.

As long as I’m up to date in scores, players and matches (there’s an app, don’t you know) and I can hold a conversation about rugby, I see no reason I should have to love it, despite everyone around me.  My mother always said to me, as long as you know what’s happening in sport and you can remotely blag it, that’s fine.  So I can keep myself up to date with what’s going on with a minutes glance at BBC Sport or a quick check of the app, and impress the man’s friends with my knowledge of who won where and why, voila, instant fan.

I used to love sport.  I used to have the fold out world cup charts stuck to my bedroom wall and be an avid member of every team going at school.  I just think with age, your interests change and you develop more into the person you’re supposed to be, rather than the person your environment and those around you mould you to be.  I went to a sports school, I played netball nationally, athletics for Surrey, not to mention the tennis team, rounders team, basketball team … the list goes on.  At the time it was what I was subjected to and what all my best friends were involved in, of course I was going to join in.  Whilst I loved every second of my sport involvement, it’s only as I’ve progressed and moved on my with life I’ve discovered that sport isn’t my thing, it isn’t my outlet in life – and that’s fine.

So whilst I attend my creative writing class and listen to opera whilst reading novels and watching documentaries on theatre and art, Andy continues with his rugby twice a week, going to the gym and fiddling about with his dumbbells and barbells (I just had to ask him what his weights are called, point proven!).  And we work!  Having been together for nearly a year now, opposites can most definitely attract.  So what if I read a book at his rugby games and he listens to Kanye West whilst being dragged around an art gallery, as long as we respect and maintain even remote interest in each other’s outlets that’s fine, because that’s what they are, OUR outlets.

So whilst I think Argentina means Arg from Towie and he thinks Bach is german food, we work.  And long may we continue to do so!

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