Oh my goodness. What a week! There have been ups and downs (I thought Little Seymour Number Two had appendicitis on Sunday – it was just bad wind), highs and lows, culminating in two visits to Clapham Junction in as many days, and a few little television appearances as well. Crikey on a bikey!
All this craziness is just as well really, because soon, I’ll be back to my usual routine of whizzing up and down through the Village of the Folding Cow, to deposit the Four Little Seymours at various places, with the occasional foray into the local metropolis that is the one and only Horsham. Mainly because I need to visit Wilko.
Needless to say, the Funny Little Bungalow has been at the back of my mind for a few days, and I’ve been too preoccupied to worry very much about the hurdles associated with living in The Shed.
The build-up to this week started months ago, when my brother, Uncle Bacon Nose, and I were offered the opportunity to go to Centre Court on Bastille Day, which should, by my calculations, have been a good day’s tennis. There was also a very slim chance (because things rarely go to plan) that we might get to see our sporting idol and all-round great chap, The Federer himself. We bit the bullet, and planned to go – after all, Bacon Nose hadn’t been to Wimby before, and it’s an experience in itself.
Arriving at the grounds, we had our bags searched by polite security guards, and then we were even scanned for weapons. This was rather embarrassing, as I appeared to be the only person for miles around who had to stand in the open, arms raised, whilst a small, uniformed lady waved me over with her tool. At this point, a swarm of photographers appeared out of nowhere, jostling each other and snapping away.
Now, I know I’d been on TV the day before, and also in January. And once in 2008. And I do have a published book endorsement to my name. (See this link!). But unless they thought I was Cliff Richard (a likeness has been mentioned), I failed to see how the flurry of paparazzi could have been for me.
Bacon Nose, on the other hand, has more than a passing resemblance to The Federer himself; was this the cause of the commotion?
Sadly not. Turning round, I saw a man and a woman coming in the gate, and immediately it came to me! Its Zayn Malik, I told Bacon Nose. I’ve no idea who the woman is, but that’s the ex-One Erectioner, it is. Yes. That’s Zayn. Uh huh. Yup.
I wish I had shut up. It wasn’t Zayn, it turns out (or was it?). The lady with Non-Zayn was instantly recognisable to Uncle Bacon nose as Katherine Jenkins. Oops. I would swear she’s shrunk, and undergone some kind of metamorphosis. I thought she looked more like Marilyn Monroe, once upon a time…
The curious thing, though, is that she didn’t suffer the hilarious public scanning display that I did. But she is Katherine Jenkins, and far more wholesome than I. And less likely to be a terrorist, therefore. I suppose.
Anyway, enough of her. For now.
Uncle Bacon Nose and I began our saunter around the hallowed grounds of the AELTC. What a place! The gardening alone is worth a visit! But then, oh my goodness! We noticed the familiar sound of balls being hit in a non-frenzied, practisey kind of way, on Court Number Seven, I think it was. Bacon Nose glanced over the assembled crowd, and there, only a few yards away, was the man we’d come to see – The Federer himself, hitting away to an audience, Rolex in tow, calm as a cucumber.
I felt guilty, actually. Intrusive, even. Especially when an easy practice shot flew past his racket and he had to style it out. But I guess that’s the whole point of Wimbledon – people come to watch.
Soon, The Federer left the practice court, and was escorted away, smuggled into the bowels of Centre Court somewhere, to await his turn in the gladiatorial ring.
We continued our tour, and on the way, came across the enormous Tomas Berdych, being led away from his practise session, dripping with sweat and surrounded by stony-faced guards who were making a human barrier between us and him. He scared me, reminding me of Dolph Lundgren or some other Bond villain. He was Fed’s next hurdle to cross. And he looked dangerous.
Bacon Nose and I stopped on the grass at Henman Hill for a bite to eat, before taking up our seats in the main arena itself. Centre Court is big, but feels small, and every seat offers a good view. From where we sat, we could easily spot Little Ms Jenkins and Non-Zayn taking up their seats in the Royal Box, alongside Bear Grylls, David Attenborough, a beegee, possibly Prince Andrew, a certain Jude Law and the wonderful Rod Laver. Nearby, Sir Trevor McDonald chatted to Sir Cliff (yes – my doppelgänger!) whilst an under-the-radar Justin Rose sat in the crowd amongst The Rest of Us.
It was surreal and lovely.
Cilic beat Querrey. End of story.
And then… out came The Man. And on went our hats.
Bacon Nose had further gambled upon seeing Roger when he decided to spend a small fortune on two red RF caps directly from The Roger Federer Foundation online shop. These hats have sat in his house, untouched, awaiting their first outing. And with these hats, we settled down to watch RF himself play.
Roger broke early, but Berdych broke him back. There was a tie break. I was stressed. I can’t explain why I get stressed when Roger plays. I always do. I take no interest in any other sport, but with Roger, like for a lot of people, it feels personal. Maybe, having spent a while trying to convince Bacon Nose to sign himself up as a professional lookalike back in 2003, the synapses were formed. Making a Nike headband with an old sock and a Sharpie can do that to a person. Now, maybe in my subconscious, I feel like he’s my brother by another mother. Who knows? Anyway, he’s The Man, and I so want him to win at old Wimby for an eighth time. Wouldn’t that be marvellous!
Despite the stress, after two sets up, I relaxed a bit. Rodge was on track and Berdych’s size and formidable villainous aura couldn’t shake him. He was through to another Wimbledon final!
Now, Cilic is the hurdle. He’s ever so big and tall and wide and young. He moves well, hits hard, and is trying to emulate Goran Ivanisevic. More stress to come on Sunday, then! Come on, Roger! Or, as a chap in the crowd kept shouting yesterday, ahoy! Ahoy, Roger! Ahoy, ahoy, ahoy!
As we walked around the grounds yesterday in the evening sun before leaving, we were getting more looks. Was it Bacon Nose’s Fed impression? Or my Cliff one? Or was it, simply, that my brother and I, in our little red hats, had been shown not once but twice on the BBC’s live coverage that went out around the grounds, around the country, and around the world..? What a souvenir! By tea time, I had friends whatsapping me screenshots of their tellies, and yes, we do appear to be praying…
Back at home, meanwhile, Big Seymour was wrangling the Four Little Seymours into bed. But not before he’d put a few tiles on the roof. And watched his wife on telly, for the second day in a row.
And now, back to reality. Ahoy! x
For my book endorsement, please see http://www.littleparachutes.com/books/minnie-max-ok/
Little Parachutes is the most amazing website that recommends situational picture books for young children. I work for them!
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