The day began with the walk to the station and a pleasant train journey through the Sussex, Hampshire and Surrey countryside. On disembarking, we neatly body-swerved the waiting taxi drivers, pausing only to shake our heads and comment on the indolence of their customers, before setting off towards Wimbledon village. One of the countless joys of being married to my wife is that our coffee-deficiency thresholds are perfectly co-ordinated: it was time to dive into the welcoming arms of a well-known chain, brandishing a customer loyalty card and politely requesting medium cappuccinos and flapjacks.
Suitably refreshed, it was time to patronise the local delicatessen, an establishment arrayed with such a fragrant and appetising collection of victuals that the day threatened to end there. However, having selected sufficient supplies to see us, and possibly the army of a country such as Luxembourg, through the day, we carried on down the hill to our final destination.
Once in the ground, having once again been impressed by the well-represented yet light security presence, the only thing to do was to storm Henman Hill, claymore in hand, proclaiming it as Murray Mount, in the style of Mel Gibson in the true-to-life, historical re-enactment Braveheart (I cried when I saw it. Not because of Mel's tragic death by quartering but due to the historical inaccuracy). In other words, it was time for lunch (our food clock is also synchronised) washed down with the finest cava money can buy (well it was quite nice anyway). At this point, my wife realised that she had forgotten her binoculars; a vital element in royal-box celebrity-spotting. As it turned out, the only recognisable figures were the Duke of Kent and his wife, although we did see the BBC's John Inverdale posing with some star-struck orientals outside court number eighteen.
Then it was time for action. A slowly-filling Centre Court was soon reverberating to a heartfelt rendition of Advance Australia Fair from a group of yellow-clad (I know Aussies like to think it's gold but, believe me, this was yellow) Lleyton Hewitt supporters. For it was the diminutive (in tennis terms) antipodean who opened proceedings against the number five seed Robin Soderling of Sweden. Hewitt recalled the glory days of his 2002 Wimbledon title in the opening sets, scuttling across the ground in such a fashion that would have caused the late Steve Irwin to shout 'look at this little fella! Better not get too close, this guy can really shift!'. After two hours of end-to-end slogging Hewitt was two sets to the good. However, Soderling brought his big serve to bear in the third set and, living up to his national stereotype of coolness under pressure, stormed back to win the match in five sets. Amazingly, despite met office predictions, we had not seen even the hint of a rain delay. The yellow army slunk away to drown their sorrows and we decided to take a stroll before the next match.
To my surprise, a light rain was falling as we stepped outside Centre Court. It was only then that it dawned on me that the reason for the lack of rain interruptions was not due to any deficiency in the predictive power of the met office. Rather, the roof had been closed; a fact that escaped us as we were sitting under the old roof section and could not see the new roof from our vantage point.
After tea and doughnuts, we wandered back inside to witness another close encounter between the taciturn Chinese winner of the French Open, Na Li and the animated German, Sabine Lisicki, whose thighs seem to have been borrowed from a baby rhinoceros. Lisicki eventually triumphed 8-6 in the final set and walked off to only the most perfunctory of handshakes from her opponent.
Time then for more food and the much awaited Pimms o'clock. Sitting on the hill, eating and drinking, watching the big screen with raincoats on under an umbrella, it struck me that the British are traditionally quite magnificently insane as a race. The scene in Carry on up the Khyber where Sid James and his officers and wives insist on finishing their dinner before dealing with the invading army of the Khazi only works as comedy because of the huge element of truth contained within it. I really hope the ever-accelerating rush to the peak of Mount Instant-Gratification that seems to have been taking place over the last few years doesn't result in the loss of our ability to get the best out of the most unlikely situations.
Back to the action and the purring panther that is Roger Federer. Centre Court was speckled with the red of his disparate army of adoring female fans. Some of them even went so far as to embellish their outfits with the white cross of Switzerland. Many carried banners proclaiming their love for the affable Swiss maestro. I wonder what it must be like to be followed around by a battery of, mainly, middle-aged women worshipping the cult of your personality. The match itself was not much of a contest; his French opponent having no answer to Federer's perfect positioning: he seems to have as much time as he likes to play each shot. The highlight of his game to me though is the single-handed backhand. An imperious device, he employs it to great effect, swatting the ball away like a Roman emperor dealing with an insubordinate minion.
There's a unique atmosphere surrounding these two weeks in SW19. Walking to the ground, passing a host of salubrious residences, one is very much aware of the genteel nature of the event. Inside the ground, the staff are unfailingly polite, as indeed are most of the spectators. Sometimes, in the midst of a hectic life, you just want to stop the world and get off for a while. Wimbledon is the ideal disembarkation point. The Championships seem to bring out the positive aspects of our national psyche; politeness, respect and a quiet way of just getting on with things no matter what. It also gives us the opportunity to indulge in that peculiarly British pastime; supporting the plucky loser. I wonder what the reaction would be should Andy Murray win the title. We would celebrate, no doubt, but would there not be just a hint of regret that our bitter-sweet suffering was over?
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