Wimbledon

The alarm seemed to go off far too quickly in the morning, and the sleeping boy beside me groaned.  It was only 5:30 AM, and so we'd gotten little more than 2-3 hours of sleep.

I dragged myself up and got dressed, although without showering, as there was no way I could manage that.  With the weather forecast for the day being warm, I debated what to wear, before finally settling on shorts, a cardigan, and a fleece jacket.  Once I was pretty much ready to go, I poked the sleeping boy in my bed until he stirred, and he too was soon dressed and we were on our way.

He was desperate for coffee, so at the train station he stopped at a kiosk to buy one, and surprised me by buying me a Diet Coke as well, my own personal version of coffee.  It was just such a sweet gesture, and very thoughtful.

We made our way to Southfields, walked to the gates of Wimbledon Park, and once there were informed by the staff outside the gates that the queue had already reached the maximum capacity of the grounds, we were unlikely to get in now before 5 PM.  We were invited to queue up anyway and try our luck, so we went in and joined the queue, standing in a large field with thousands of other people.

The Wimbledon queue is the stuff of legends, and I have to say that they've obviously figured out by now how to do it right.  Shortly after we arrived, staff came around handing out queue cards, giving us a precisely numbered card that showed us our exact position in the queue.  This prevented people from saving spots for their friends (only one card per person), and ensured that you didn't have to worry about people attempting to cut in line in the queue.

My queue card

Upon realising that we were 8,400th in line we did debate whether it was worth it to stay.  The Tall South African had originally been planning on meeting some friends of his from his university tennis club, but when we called we discovered that they were not yet out of bed, and so it was far too late for them to make it to join the queue at this point.

We eventually decided to stay and try our luck for at least a little while, until we could get a sense of how it was likely to go.  After a bit of sitting on the ground, the Tall South African decided to go in search of a coffee, and surprised me again with the sweet gesture of bringing me a bacon nutty when he returned.  As we hadn't had breakfast before we left in the morning, I was starving and grateful for the lovely thought.

The massive queue

The thing about queueing at 7am is that I was quickly discovering my decision to wear shorts had been the wrong one, at least at this hour of the morning.  Too quickly, I was freezing and shivering in the early morning air.  I tried to tough it out for as long as I could, but at around 8:30 AM when I realised we would be staying for a while (the grounds didn't even open until 10:30 AM), I declared that I would like one of the picnic blankets that the local newspaper hawkers were selling for a small fee.  Before I could even reach into my handbag to give him some money, the Tall South African disappeared and shortly thereafter came back with a blanket to keep me warm.  He really just was being so good to me.

We sat in our spot in the queue, moving once when the Wimbledon stewards lined us up along perfectly straight lines, and even though the queue got slightly messed up at that point, the stewards quickly sorted it out again with the help of the queue cards.  They really took no chances that the line would ever get out of order!

Yet, as we sat on the cold ground, me even wrapped up in my blanket, I was still cold, and quite tired after having gotten up so early.  I know the Tall South African loved Wimbledon and was excited for it, but I was starting to question the sanity of freezing our tails off lying in a field in the early hours of the morning.  And so as he lay down to take a bit of a nap, I realised that the best blanket was sitting right next to me.  So I curled up around him, put the blanket over both of us, and rested my head upon his chest.  It rather did make me glad that although we have a pretty clear platonic line of friendship between us, we also don't shy away from close physical contact like that.  And so with his heartbeat sounding steadily in my ear as I rested my head on his chest, warm at last, I finally fell asleep.

I don't know how long I was out, but it was finally a bit warmer and later in the day when I woke up again.  The Wimbledon staff came around handing out stickers that said, "I queued in the sun" (there are apparently also "rain" versions, which they give out depending on the weather), and finally it seemed time to move.

Our stickers!

Moving the queue still took ages however, and despite that the gates opened at 10:30 AM, it was noon before our section of the queue was moved.  When we got to the front of the line, they checked our queue cards once again, and people who had moved up too much were told to hang back, as the officials continued to strictly enforce the sanctity of the queue.

We meandered through the entrance area, and got almost to the security checks when suddenly the line stopped moving.  After a bit of standing around wondering what was going on, the stewards came through and informed us all that the grounds were now at capacity with 8,000 people admitted.  They were now going to go through and see what space they had to admit any more people, which would probably be another 200-300 at most.  He said the next time the queue moved, if we weren't through security when it stopped again, that's now where we would be until 5 PM.  Probably not what we wanted to hear, but he still (rightly so) said he was sure it was better to tell us honestly what was going on.

Given that we were 8,400th in line, this was not looking good.  It was so borderline as to be nerve-wracking, and we started making alternate plans as to what we would do with the day if we were not admitted to the park.  And then slowly, the line began to move again, as they made everyone line up in single file, and slooooooowly counted us through one-by-one.  As we inched towards the pass-through point, we began to agonise about how heart-breaking it would be if they cut off the line right before we got through.

And then, a miracle happened:  First me, and then the Tall South African, we were counted on through the line.  We were in!!!!

As we passed through, I found I was absolutely shaking, I had been so nervous about whether or not we would make it.  We were just giddy with excitement, unable to believe our luck.  And then even more so when we looked behind us and realised that they had let in only about another 8-10 people after us, and had then cut off the line.  So close, so lucky, and so thankfully on the right side of the line!

We got in!  Me at Murray Mound

I almost couldn't fully believe it until we handed over our £20 note and got our grounds pass, it seemed so unreal.  But once we were inside, the reality finally hit:  We were at Wimbledon!!

Of course, we hadn't eaten anything since our bacon butty sandwiches that morning, so the first thing we did was buy two hamburgers and two beers.  We polished those off in short order, and then went wandering around to check out the tennis.

The way the place was set up, there were tennis courts everywhere, and you could just wander from game to game, perching along the sidelines and watching the action.  We watched a bit at Court 18, where the longest match ever was once played, and kept popping in here and there to watch bits and pieces of various games.

The plaque at No. 18 Court

We then went and got some strawberries and cream at the old clubhouse, just because that is such a Wimbledon tradition.  How could one miss out on such a standard bit of Wimbledon lore?

Strawberries and cream

I got a brilliant surprise when after days of missed calls, I felt my phone buzz and saw a familiar name pop up on my phone.  Joel!  I must have completely ruined the serve of the girl at the game I was watching, as I exclaimed with such delight to see that familiar name on my phone.  Realising the dirty looks I was getting, I ducked out of the way to chat to him for a bit, enjoying our little catch-up call.  Of course the one time that I didn't really have time to talk, Joel was up for a full-on, proper chat, and so before long I found the Tall South African taking my hand and leading me through crowds.  It was very sweet, as I just blithely followed along as he pulled me through the crowds, holding the phone in my other hand and chatting to Joel.  Very funny, as Joel has been in a bit of a sentimental mood lately, and calling me much more than usual.  At last it seems he misses me as much as I do him.

As I was still on the phone, the Tall South African put me in a corner and firmly planted his hands on my shoulders to indicate that I was to stay put.  I then got a good laugh when I finally hung up with Joel and he returned with two beers in his hands.  What a brilliant boy!

I apologised for taking the call but explained that I'd been missing calls from Joel for ages, to which the Tall South African assured me that he always took my calls, even when he shouldn't, sometimes having even done so when he was "getting busy" with another girl.  That made me laugh, even as I protested that he really should learn to ignore the phone sometimes.  He replied, "But it's you.  You're more important than any other girl, and I want to talk to you more than any other girl."

After a while of watching tennis and seeing the famous players walk in our midst (there would be military personnel barking, "Player coming through!" and then the crowd would part as we saw somebody like Laura Robson walk on by), we decided to retire to Henman Hill (or Murray Mound as it is most frequently called these days) to sit on the grass, lie in the sun, drink beer and watch the main games on the big screen.

The sunshine on Henman Hill

We did chat a bit about a topic that had come up earlier that morning, the question of why we don't date each other.  I can tell he's thinking a lot about it lately, because of all other girls, I'm the one he most wants to spend time with.  But I'm also the one who sees through him most readily, and who knows him inside and out, who he can't get away with things with.  And in truth, although I won't tell him so, I seriously doubt whether he could retain my interest long-term.  Sometimes he tires me, as I don't have quite the intellectual conversations with him that I do with others.

And yet, particularly after the Young Dutchman's rubbish behaviour of the past week, and seeing how wonderfully sweet and solicitous he was being, I realised I don't give him nearly enough credit for how good he is to me.  He would make a good date to many things, and I should take him out with me more.

After sitting on the hill for hours, we were quite tipsy and getting a bit burnt in the sunshine (I'd quite forgotten to bring any sun creme), and so we decided to go for a walk around No. 1 Court.  As we were walking near one of the entrance ways, the Tall South African spotted two elderly women walking away, and told me to go up to them to ask if they were leaving, and if so, if we could have their tickets. I was shocked that you could just do that, but he assured me it would be okay, and insisted they would be much more likely to give their tickets to me, a girl.  He just seems to be good at reading people like that.

The tickets

Indeed, he was absolutely right, and I was floored when the women handed me both of their tickets with a pat on the hand and implored me to go enjoy the game.  So back we went up into the stands, enjoying a brilliant game completely for free with what were originally £65 tickets.  The game itself, an epic contest between David Ferra and Alexandr Dolgopolov that went on for five sets, with the advantage going back and forth frequently for many games.

Inside No. 1 Court

It went on for so long, that we were supposed to watch Serena Williams play afterwards, but they moved that game to Centre Court, where we were unable to get tickets at that last minute.  So we returned to Murray Mound for more beers, where the Tall South African decided to chat up some young American college students who were in London for the summer.

I didn't really mind, even as I realised it was a stupid idea, because he'd already told me earlier about how he was getting drunk and quite turned on around me, I think almost floating the idea as to whether I'd be accommodating (without actually saying so), but I gently made it quite clear that I wasn't game for that.  Perhaps fun in the short term, but a terrible idea in the long term.  Hence, he had a lot of misdirected energy, and now it was being spent on air-headed American girls.

I wouldn't have minded just using them for temporary entertainment, but for some reason he decided to take them with us to go get dinner, abandoning our original plan of a great burger joint we know for a kitsch American restaurant in Leicester Square.  At this point I was tired and starving, and just wanted to get some food into me before going home to bed.  The Tall South African was quite tipsy, and obviously was losing the plot of what he was trying to accomplish here.

Finally, when it was nearly midnight, I gave him enough money to cover my portion of the bill, whispered in his ear that he had keys and could come home whenever, and I would see him at home later.  He didn't make it home until 5 AM in the end, although in quite a state and saying, "Why on earth didn't I come home with you?  That would have been such the better decision!"  Ah, but it was all quite the fun day out, but I was tired and ready for bed.  So by 1 AM I was home in my own flat, and glad to finally get some sleep!