What a day. England stuffed Sri Lanka in the first One Day international, England overwhelmed (excuse the hyperbole) Germany in the Euro Championships and on the hallowed lawns of SW19, English players……. well, English players played. I’ve just been watching the highlights of England’s Fran Jones’s efforts to bring down the mighty 17 year old American sensation Coco Gauff. Jones’s every blow was accompanied by a doppler-like groan, emanating from deep within her chest and rising to a crescendo as the ball arrived on her opponent’s racket. At first hearing you might think she was in the final stages of orgasm but then it’s repeated time and again. Long rallies are reminiscent of a picnic on Watership Down. With all the skill of a seasoned observer, commentator Jo Durie opined “you can hear the effort she’s putting into it”. Yes Jo, we can and we sincerely wish we couldn’t! As statements of the blindingly obvious go, that was quite high up on the list. The vaguely good news is that Jones lost. The less good news is that there’s a fleet of other women (mainly) who are liable to progress to the later stages, wheezing and whooping their way to victory over fair-minded opponents who manage to hit the ball equally hard without a whimper. Whether or not it is off-putting to their opponents it makes watching with the sound turned down almost obligatory. From memory, Monica Seles was one of the early grunters, but I think Jimmy Connors might have been the first man. It does raise the question that if it’s so effective, why doesn’t everyone do it? Clearly it’s not something one does naturally, so we have to blame the coaches for this affront to one’s audio senses; and it’s only Day 2 at Wimbledon.
Whilst accompanying Callie on a stroll down the Prom this grey and dreek (great Scottish word) afternoon, I ended up pondering what one super-power or talent I would choose, should my lamp-rubbing produce a magic genie. What would you choose? A Clark Kent conversion? Wonder Woman? To fly like an eagle? Antman? Or perhaps to have the trumpeting skills of Alison Balsam or the ability to daub a canvas like Pablo Picasso? I went to a musical school where I was surrounded by hugely talented musicians. Ever since I have longed to be able to sit down and sight read a Chopin piano concerto without a mistake or pull up a stool at the pub Joanna and thrash out a melody of drunken requests by ear. I still think that would be my first ask of the genie, although perhaps it would just be to “live long and prosper”.
It’s been an interesting day. Son Oliver is on an expensive cricket tour where they played golf and swam because the cricket was rained off, Alison and daughter Tiggy departed for our holiday in Suffolk, where I should have been if Oliver hadn’t gone on an expensive cricket tour and I’ve been left with Callie and a house full of plumbers and electricians replacing a giant boiler that looks as though it may have been installed before England last beat Germany at soccer. The good news is that Callie neither answers back nor has stressy hissy fits, is immensely, tail-waggingly grateful for an hour’s romp in the woods and positively drools with appreciation when the bowl of biscuits and pork appears at the appropriate hour.
England are due to play……in next Saturday’s quarter final. Please insert either Sweden or Ukraine. It’s 10.15pm and they’ve only just started the second half of extra time. I’m off to bed.
ADayInTheStrifeOf 