At long last the sun is shining on our holiday coast and, what’s more, on British sport.
I say British, rather than English, as it was predominantly Welshmen in our victorious Lions rugby team in Australia and, of course, a Scot who finally lifted the Wimbledon trophy for these islands.
Are there any Irish cricketers to stump touring Aussies in this Ashes series?
At Edmonds Towers in Great Marton last Sunday I sat inside glued to the centre-court drama as She Who Knows (not a Murray fan) entertained family guests outside.
“He’s won the first set,” I announced incredulously from the kitchen door before returning inside. Outside the ladies were enjoying Pimms.
“Very nice, dear.” They chorused.
“He’s won the second!” I shouted excitedly an hour later.
By then they were tucking into chocolate cake and strawberries and looking as hot under their collars as I was feeling.
The temperature was rising and a gruelling 40 degrees at Wimbledon. But this was no time for a beer or relaxation. It was still the best of five sets and Djokovitch had fought his way back from two down in the past.
“He’s serving for the championship!” I finally bleated, barely crediting it myself.
Only this historic news brought them inside to watch as Sir Andy (well, almost), dithered over gut-wrenching match points.
“He’s done it!” She Who confirmed in amazement, as the winning ball was netted from a shattered looking Serbian (my mother-in-law still thought Murray was playing that six-foot-eight Pole from the semis).
“Oh, his mother will be pleased!” Mater-in-law observed as Murray made that now familiar climb to team and loved ones but, typically, almost forgot a tearful mum.
“What a gentleman!” Sister-in-law commented, hearing Djokovitch as graceful in defeat as we Brits have so often been.
Yes, summer’s here with bells on and, as I finally opened the fridge for a beer, there was further cause for celebration.
She Who agreed we could at last turn off the heating.
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