You know you're a tad obsessed when you find yourself muttering that there choon.
Ah Wimbledon. Those two weeks where tennis is your first, your last, your everything. The arm of the couch has suffered mercilessly from you clinging to it during those match points. You can spell Novac Djokovic. It's now your only dream to be a ball girl/boy. You only drink Robinsons and eat strawberries. You can do a spot on impression of Venus Williams' yell. Watching the roof close over centre court is enough to set your heart racing. Hawkeye is a better invention than the internet.
It's now your darkest secret that you actually gave up tennis when you were 11. You brush the cobwebs off your racket and suggest to mummy that you have a bit of a friendly. You're a little embarrassed that Sharapova won when she was 17 and you're just slobbed out gazing at her on the tellybox.
Still, I've a year to train, anyone for tennis?
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