In an effort to be a good mum, I’ve signed two of the girls up for a few sessions of children’s tennis coaching. Having never ventured into organised holiday activities before, I was spurred into action this time through boredom (its no longer swimming weather) and the fact that my six (nearly seven) year old says she mostly sits out in tennis lessons at school, as she can’t get the ball over the net. We’ve got the most long suffering and brilliant coach called George (or Coorch George as the four year old calls him) and he’s so booked up that we are filling in his lunch breaks with our extra lessons. The fist session was at our local club, but it was difficult for him to fit us in there and asked if we could come to the club where he is based. After negotiating through a maize of terraced housing estates we found it. The club is a little down at heel but a gem nonetheless with a pool, three tennis courts, gym and bar. It’s full of kids having fun and enthusiastic teachers. Last time I detected a sewerage ish odour wafting over us and used to such things thought nothing of it. The four year old whispered; ‘there’s a bit of a not very nice smell here Mummy’ and I said ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter!!’ in a jolly way. When we left and I glanced over my shoulder to see Kibera slum laid out just over the club wall stretching on over the valley, into the distance.