When a dreaming boy proved himself a man..

I could stay in and write a new post in honour of Andy and Heather, Jordanne and Gordon, the four Brits who made Wimbledon theirs this year. But I think I’ve said it all so I’ll just repost this as a tribute. I’m away for a few celebratory drinks.. 😀 Oh and I’ll have one for Henri too, the first Finn to take a grand slam title.


I always liked Andy Murray. Not because I am Scottish and he is Scottish and I like tennis. Mostly I like the idea of strawberries and cream, green lawns and sunny days..

I liked Andy, cause I felt maybe, despite a foot’s height difference, my inability to stop smiling and much better hair do, we had something in common.

I first really felt it watching him lose to Federer in the final. So chuffed that he even got that far and that he managed to win a set, but watching him, that narrow face growing narrower, with frustration tightening every muscle,  felt a little like watching myself.

I know how easy it is to choke on the emotion of the moment. The immensity of what could be and the sense that you’re not big enough to fill it. That unavoidable feeling that it simply isn’t your destiny to be.. destined. It doesn’t matter how…

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