Basking in the Summer Sun.

Were you ever cajoled into going for summer camps as a kid? Yeah, those absolutely wasteful classes where they taught you how to make useless things. Stuff that really only increased the volume of garbage at home? Well, dunno about you, but I've been to enough such classes to last me a lifetime.
Yeah I know how to make snowmen with paper plates and also know how to tie a bow in 4 different ways. How that'll help in my journey to realising my higher self, God alone knows. Anyhow, when I reached the sensible old age of 13, I figured I needed to narrow down on what I really wanted to do with my summers. (than waste them making coloured paper boats atleast!)
I signed up for tennis classes. I should mention now that I wasn't in the best physical shape to be embarking on such a cool sport in the first place. All I ever played at school were silly games with preposterous names such as 'Help sister help' or 'stuck in the mud'. I wasn't prepared, but being young and foolish has it's advantages. One signs up for anything.
The first few classes were extremely annoying. I figured the entire class (comprising 10-12 kids) was younger than me, and they were all atleast a foot shorter too. Our coach was an over enthusiastic gentleman who loved barking instructions that no one followed. Backhand invariably became forehand and forhand became ducking outta the way. I will also solemnly admit I had a hand in him losing his voice after training us for some 10 odd days.
I was pathetic at delivering service, something that seasoned players do with great ease: In leaning backwards and tossing the ball in the air. Then hitting it at the right moment to send it sailing over the net.
My service always had the dusty green ball hit me smartly on the head while I vigorously sliced the air with the racket. I quit tennis soon after. I think the numerous balls that hit my head knocked some sense into me.
Soon after, I joined oil painting classes, but they were no good either. I confused my colours more often than I would've liked. But you can't blame me if you've to follow instructions such as "Blend the ocher into sunset yellow and then use a few strokes of golden yellow to off set the contrast"... Huh??...I personally thought the lady must've had a learning disorder as a child to want to complicate her life at that age, then. So anyway, I didn't last quite long there either.
Finally, I thought I had my calling in playing a musical instrument. I began to learn how to play the keyboard. The young anglo Indian tried to awaken the musician in me, but nothing happened. I didn't go beyond 'Twinkle twinkle' and a jazzy 'Happy Birthday'... Those classes concluded before I could learn much more and the only constructive thing I really learnt there, was how to wipe the keys clean with a wet cloth.
In anycase, the longest summer of my life ended soon enough and though I can't brag of having mastered tennis, painting or the keyboard very well, I do know a bit about all of 'em:
Whatever goes up, comes down. Looking at a tennis ball come hurtling towards you and then waiting to see what happens, is not the smartest thing to do.
Spray painting with your nose too close to the canvas is a serious no-no and lastly,
I've learnt that 'Colin' is the best cleaning agent that'll keep your keyboard keys gleaming today, tomorrow and here after.