hazy, lazy, days of summer... and fast balls

life is a horizontal fall

Strawberries; freshly cut grass; the delicate scent of English roses where there are none. Borne from afar upon the fresh breezes of the afternoon, but a few of many wonderful things that court the slow progression of summer. And where would we be without the metronomic rhythm that accompanies that finest union of nylon and felt, as the Rusedski's and Krajicek's of the world get on with what they do best?

Yes indeed, Wimbledon is upon us once again, and once again, my lovely village home will be ransacked by hordes of tourists and campers (of the outdoor type, c'mon people) from June 23 through to July 6. But it is a small price to pay for such a great event, choc full of atmosphere and alive with positive energy. This is perhaps the second year in a decade during which I will be away from all the action during the week, what with University, but I'll be sure to make it down for a weekend.
My home is only a few hundred yards from the courts and, in fact, used to afford a partial view into the upper terraces of one of the lesser stands. It's so close, again, that when you hear the crowds roar on the television and then hit mute, you can still hear the crowds roar, even through closed windows. It's a fervor that is entirely palpable. I couldn't help but enjoy it even if I didn't like the game. Just wish I could play it; I'm a badminton man.
The bookies are having a field day. Good luck Lleyton.