Mr Pickleball

He's in a grey tee-shirt, brandishing a paddleboard and roaring. 

"This is pickleball!!!" His eyes gleam indignantly. 

I gaze blankly at him. I don't know what pickleball is -- it looks a bit like badminton without a net. Or table. Or birdie. 

I've been trying to get Demeter's rollator (otherwise known as a walker, here in Canada) adjusted for height, with a cane holder installed for about six months. The shop that sold us both Demeter's walkers has set up a little walker/scooter clinic in the corner of the auditorium where we usually vote in elections, and today, we're apparently impinging on Mr Pickleball's style. He stalks over and tries marshalling the four people waiting for help with their walkers. His pickleball partner looks embarrassed. Demeter ignores him. The guy from the shop is bewildered and exasperated. 

"I've been asked to come in," he remonstrates with Mr Pickleball. "This is for the community!" 

Mr Pickleball counters with something about the door we're using to enter the auditorium. We were directed to this door by the entrance staff carefully checking our vaccination passports. There's an outdoor side entrance with a deep sill, not feasible for scooters and a challenge for rollators, and besides, it's raining. 

 Mr Pickleball resumes his game and ignores us. I guide Demeter out the contested door, and close it firmly. 

 Here's a brief rundown on pickleball. The lady is way more cheery than Mr Pickleball.