What, you may ask, is the greatest distraction for a young man sitting at home as he attempts to plan a trip to Asia whilst writing something worth publishing?
Is it the internet? Music? The Jeremy Kyle Show? An endless supply of chocolate biscuits as he piles on some mighty bingo wings? Cheap porno (if you’re that way inclined; frankly, I think it’s revolting)... Hehe.
None of these perfectly acceptable answers; it’s tennis. Plain old tennis, the sport played by Russian women built like cage fighters and an angry Scot who has all of Britain hooked, as he moans and mumbles his way through another tedious press conference. What is it about Wimbledon that so transfixes me, as well as millions of other British people who most of the time couldn’t give a rat’s arse about double faults and break points? Patriotism is the easy answer and, let’s face it, probably the correct one; any excuse to dust off the Union Jack flag in the garage and stuff your face with scones is always welcome. Additionally, the Brits love an excuse for a booze up in the hazy afternoon sunshine and, weather permitting, Wimbledon supplies us with a two week window to do so, during the height of summer. Considering we’re a country with some of the worst alcohol related statistics in Europe, the world, the universe, this must be taken into consideration. What more could a borderline alcoholic, sun-deprived, success-starved nation like us want? Nowt, quite frankly. Asides from the England footie team winning a World Cup Final 10-0 against Germany at Wembley Stadium, I can’t think of any other sporting occasion which comes close.
Such was my urgency to rush back to the BBC coverage, with Sue Barker the (almost) silver fox showing a little too much leg whilst Tim Henman definitely tries to suppress a semi, that I neglected my household duties. The point of drying the dishes is in the name: drying. Not shoving them back in the cupboards and wondering why everything is soggy when you come back later to cook dinner. Blaming it on a fictional hole in the roof just doesn’t cut the mustard really, not with my hawkeyed mother. It’s quite strange, being back at home and suddenly domesticated, after spending three years working every hour of the day and having almost total independence. I don’t yet find helping out at home emasculating in the slightest; however, I do draw the line at feather dusting.
Tomorrow I’ll be venturing on my third tandem biking session with Chris Blackabee, which I’m glad to say is rapidly becoming a regular fixture; not sure if I fancy doing it in the Saharan heat we’re experiencing today. I may actually melt into the saddle otherwise. But hey ho, at least I’m fortunate enough to even see where we’re going, so I’ll look on the bright side and keep you posted on our next adventure. Assuming we don’t plough into an oncoming lorry (fingers crossed). Tapping away at a laptop in a full body cast might be tricky.
Game, set and match. G x
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