Lush, green grass, white chalk perfectly defining boundaries and I am already spellbound by the untouched Centre Court as Wimbledon 2023 is about to commence. I will make the most of this two week tournament and indulge myself as much as I can, rooted in front of our biggest television which is situated in our less comfortable room but it will do nicely. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to actually be there. Centre Court, Court Number 1, the outside courts, I would be in awe. The rhythmic thwack of racquet on tennis ball has a soothing, almost hypnotic feeling which began sometime in childhood with my mother, a keen player in her teens, following black and white television coverage of Wimbledon in the ‘50s and ‘60s. In my younger days I enjoyed knocking a ball around the hard courts in our Stanley Park. I was completely rubbish, even with my Chris Evert endorsed make of racquet. I’m sure the exercise did me good.
The Tennis – this grand slam being the only one I follow closely – fits in just right, between the end of the football season and the beginning of the next one. When the children were small, I used to look upon it as some ‘me’ time before the summer holidays. In my days of working full time, I would try to plan annual leave around it. Now that I’m retired, it can be a priority, as far as I can push it. And it is only a fortnight, after all.
I love the protocol and tradition that is special to Wimbledon. The All England Tennis and Croquet Club correct and proper, which puts me in mind of the bygone times I wish I had known. I adore the work of John Betjeman for the same reason,
A Subaltern’s Love Song
Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me!
Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.
Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.
The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.
On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing's the light on your hair.
By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!
Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.
And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
Sir John Betjeman CBE (1906 – 1984)
Thanks for reading, Pam x
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