Wimbledon is in crisis. No, don’t panic, they still have strawberries and I believe the cream situation is also under control. No, this is, if you can believe it, a problem for the well-manicured lawns of SW19. For, you see, a number of players seem to have grown rather too fond of the grass. So fond in fact that they have developed a habit of throwing themselves at it rather hard in an effort to make an imprint of their body in it. This extreme act has, understandably, caused a startling number of injuries and withdrawals from ‘The Championships.’ At current count there have been twelve retirements through injury (though not all of them can be attributed to the grass mania which is sweeping the tournament) and one player is currently in the midst of a medical timeout, (he’s up and about now. I bet you weren’t expecting a live tennis blog when you came were you?)
Mystery not-injured-anymore player has just gone 2-1 up in the first set on serve.
It is becoming pretty clear now that this is my year, I have never had a better chance to win Wimbledon than this year. As long as I don’t get struck down by the mysterious grass malady, I think I could go far.
I’m joking of course, I’ll have a much better chance next year when they turn the whole complex into one big soft play to avoid injuries, and decree that the only competition that will be played is mixed doubles where one of the competitors must be 3 years old or younger. I’d take me and my daughter against any of them in a game which took place in the revamped Centre Court, otherwise known as the biggest indoor ball pool in the world. Remember when you see the announcements in the press that you heard it here first. It really is a fool-proof idea which has the added benefit of giving at least some of the players an excuse for squealing and whining like toddlers.
Uninjured player now at 1 set all and is 3-2, on serve, in the third set, he is looking very sprightly as well
Anyway, back to grass. You see I had a slight run-in with the grass in my own garden just this week, and when I say a run-in with the grass what I mean is a run-in with my lawn-mower. And when I say run-in with my lawn-mower what I really mean is that I ran over the wire powering my lawn-mower which meant that having mowed a neat little patch, and then a running track down one edge, progress was halted for quite a while as I attempted to patch up my mess. This was a relatively simple job for one of my undoubted DIY ability. All I had to do was get a terminal block and connect the wires up in it and Bob would, in fact, be your Uncle. This was accomplished with little hassle and I was soon on my way mowing like a champion. Until there was a massive bang, followed by another explosion, at which point the lawn-mower, understandably I’m sure you’ll agree, decided that discretion was the better part of valour and refused to play its, fairly crucial, part in the mowing of the lawn.
Having established, through the medium of sparks flying everywhere, that the green wire and the blue wire shouldn’t be able to come into contact (although I would like to offer, in my defence, the mitigation that I am colour blind. I realise that this is not much mitigation as they are the only two wires in there, but I feel something needs to be said in my defence) I then spent the better part of half an hour trying to strip the wires back enough so that they would fit into the terminal block, but not so much that they would be dangling out and therefore at risk of causing my entire garden to go up in flames. I’m afraid to tell you that my natural talent and flair for all things practical failed me at this crucial juncture and even though I thought I had managed to get the wires just right I still couldn’t make the lawn-mower do any actual mowing, instead it just stood in the middle of the patch it had just mowed sulking and muttering something under its breath about health and safety.
It eventually dawned on me that perhaps, amidst all the pyrotechnics, a fuse may have possibly blown. Unfortunately, the time now being somewhere in the region of getting up and going to work time, such a thing was unobtainable and thus the adventure with the lawn-mower came to a rather premature end.
|The Garden in better days.|
I have decided though that this may, in fact, serve a greater purpose. All we need to do is to get the players at Wimbledon to pop up here for the weekend and spend some time in my garden. There’s so much grass here they’d be cured of their grass infatuation in minutes.
Final update on unidentified, totally fine man: 8-9 down in the final set, play has been suspended due to slight sog.