Wimbledon

Two years ago, I had only been in London for a few days when I went to Wimbledon. Women's final from Murray Mound. I couldn't believe how British it all was. Yesterday I went again. And after two years here, I still found it incredibly British. And lovely. The picknick areas, the black cab that drove me from the station to the ground (for £ 2.50!), the queuing sytem, the people with centre court tickets dressing up, it was all the same and all so different from say the Rotterdam tournament. No need to get myself a copy of the queing guide this year though, as a mate who works in the changing rooms got me a ground pass (and drinks for that matter). It was sunny, we had champagne and strawberries and I was ready for a smashing final.

A smashing final it wasn't. The most excitement from the crowd could be heard whenever Rafa changed his shirt (nowhere near often enough, I may add). Quicker than a priest could strip a school boy, most of Murray Mound cleared after the last ball. But it is as much about the experience as it is about the tennis. And the experience was wonderful once more. One minus of the whole day: I should have hung around, judging from my mate's Facebrag a few hours after I left: "Having a Haagen Dazs with Rafa". Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!