Sunday, 30 June 2013


Five in the morning Tom and I woke and I drove to a road (that must not be named) and parked in a place that didn't have a) wardens b) cones saying you couldn't park there c) residents only markings and walked 1.9 miles (according to sat nav) to the field they call 'The Queue'. The poshest refugee camp in the world, handing out Elberflower slush and arezzo coffee for free (making up for the extortionate strawberries unless you were an HSBC customer in which case they give you free strawberries to make up for the extra bank charges for the past decade.  And extremely polite immaculately groomed straw boater men and women in grass green and deep purple with clear skin and sparkly eyes asking if we were having a good time sitting in the middle of a field, what, what.    For five hours we sat in a field, sleeping (which we both did) under a blanket I had the sense to bring, people watching occasionally, met two girls from Northern Ireland who were sooo excited and took photos of everything, even the grass.   A Russian family were ahead of us, could have been Polish.   People selling papers with free flip flops, picnic blankets and weatherproof cover ups for £5.  We walked through Gate 3 by midday.   Got our bearings. Looked around the gift shop which had mannequins wearing Wimbledon gear and laughed at the female ones that had protruding nipples.   I suppose it's another way to make tennis sexy but I think it's a sexy game anyway.    Watched some matches on outside courts - a Brit called Bainbridge who beat an American called Rubin and a really good player called S Butler who was beaten by an Italian called G Quinzi. Don't know what their first names were.   Butler lost but he was very good and I kept cheering (as I do) and at the end the Italian lady asked me if I was his mother.  (He did look like Tom). I said no, I just have an Italian disposition when it comes to supporting tennis. Last time I was on centre court I scared a young boy into moving seats with his dad I was shouting so much at Henman (who was then a tennis player rather than a mere hill).     We saw Robson lose and then win (because her opponent made double faults at the worst times - for her) sat on Herman Hill, got burnt because it wasn't suppose to be that hot yesterday, and looked at Murray being interviewed.   We left at six thirty before Venus wiped the court with her opponent who cannot be named because I can't remember her name and walked back to the car which had no ticket, and loads of very drunk people wombling around the high street preparing to throw up infront of LK Bennett, Matches and other designer shops in Wimbledon Village.    Today I have a pink nose and the tortoises who I believe (or have been led to believe) are both boys are bonking in the garden. I have tried to take a photo as tortoise porn is perhaps a new craze I could start.  'behind that hard shell lies a soft underbelly of lust....'      Whatever, I am revising my rhomboids from my serratus anterior, trapezius from my sternoclemastoids and attempting inversions without cracking open my head.   Aghhhhh

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