Court - Anyone for Tennis?

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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The Mystery Beds

I used to worry what was under my bed.

As a child I kept monsters there, which were useful for imaginative writing even if I never actually got around to it. I turned fourteen, stopped caring about those things and then kept porno mags, cigarettes and for some reason, a particularly dark bottle of piss I'd put there one day. I had no idea that the piss could charge my phone and the porn would stop Cameron denying my human rights to view writhing women. Nope, I grew out and threw out those things before I fully got to grips with their concepts. I'm not even going to think about the amount of hugely interesting stuff currently piled under our shared bed- just awaiting a moment to be binned before it gets useful- but you can probably imagine there is a lot.

No, these days I spend much more of my time thinking about what is going on under the garden beds. They bring with them a sense of wonder, overgrown with life and teaming with critters. They may not be the racy, fantasy-like beds I chased a few years back but there is definitely less to catch and they bring a gratifying amount of post-sweat satisfaction, so I'm happy with that.

Of course, this all revolves around the concept I now have people in my life to share these things with. I've swapped chasing the women in skirts for being chased by a woman with a hoover. I'm not so much dodging my parents on the way in drunk but arranging to meet them for a picking session. The things in life change, and somehow a constant has become the garden- which happens to be a useful escape.

Yesterday, in attempt to teach our eldest nephew that chips don't grow in freezers and that tomatoes don't start out in tins, we took him with us to the allotment. There, in the sunshine, he wandered around eating raspberries, red currants, black currants and tomatoes fresh from the bush. He took wheelbarrow rides around the site just like I did when I was 4. He helped with the weeding, took delight in having dirty hands for a change and wondered at how the spiral on his little galaxy viewer was the same as the spiral on the snail crawling on his arm.

For me, the defining moment came after everyone else had gone and there was just Lara, Little J and myself left. We trundled over to the top of the garden, fork in hand, and I turned just two potato plants over. Cue excitement. Four year old hands quickly launched in- fumbling through the freshly loosened soil, spotting and plucking warm spuds from the ground- each one delivered with a "Look, there's another!".

J went home with a handful of potatoes for his tea, a belly full of fruit and a mind filled with wonder. It may sound wet but in weather like this, all the poetry you need is outside. Go grow those metaphors.

Thanks for reading,
S.

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