Day 8: Wimbledon

"The All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club...reserves the right to refuse entry to anyone adopting unreasonable social behaviour..and/or commits any action against the spirit of The Queue" - AELTC Wimbledon Website


In this inter-connected, smart-phone-dominated world, it amazes me how much sway paper still has over the national consciousness. As the summer holidays grind into gear, and thousands of families flock to airports, Dad might at the check-in desk smugly whip out a tablet that contains the flight tickets, the boarding passes, the travel insurance and the kids' dental records, but they'll still all need to glumly root through their oversized baggage to track down the tiny red book that ultimately grants passage through Terminal 5. All the technology in the world can't help you if your passport is still in the sock drawer.


I remark on this because yesterday saw the official opening of the All England Lawn Tennis Club Public Ballot for Wimbledon 2012. Being unemployed and a (gentle)man of leisure, I thought I could probably clear a few minutes in my packed calendar to fill in the online application form. Except, I couldn't find one.  I couldn't even find a link to download a PDF, or, heaven forbid, an RTF file. It turns out that the first stage in applying for the ballot is to send a stamped, self-addressed envelope to a PO BOX address in SW19. The gentry at the Club will then check that the envelope is the correct size and of the self-sealing variety (those AELTC tongues have far more important things to do than lick your SAEs), that the address is legible, that the stars are aligned, and then they might, MIGHT send you a form. And all this to qualify for a glorified raffle, with the prize being the chance to give a tennis club a lot of your money.


What I thought would take a few minutes eventually took a morning, as I scoured the flat for envelopes, broke two biros, covered myself in ink as I resorted to fountain pen to scrawl my address, and then trudged to Sainsbury's to buy stamps.  It says something about our current attitude to letters, too, that at the checkout the lady was so surprised that I wanted stamps she had to ring a supervisor and ask him to unlock a drawer within which the offending bits of gummed paper lived. I hadn't realised that in the eyes of supermarkets, stamps were now controlled goods.


But in the end, I had to give the Wimbledon people credit. After all, we are the only country in the world that believes that the queue to witness a particular sporting event is as enjoyable as the event itself.  In an age where buying a flight to New York would take less than five minutes, I applaud the organisers of one of the most well-respected tournaments in the world in standing by their old-fashioned yet quintessentially English processes, and insisting that for attending one of their tennis matches, obeying paper-related rules is as important as handing over the cash.


So taken was I with this wonderfully traditional process that I decided to spend the afternoon in Wimbledon itself.  I'd never been before, though I have friends who love life there, and thought this was as good a time as any to pay my respects. Outside the train station, it seemed that the area hadn't completely escaped the onslaught of modernisation, as Alexandra Road was covered for half a mile in extensive roadworks, but fortunately I'd heard good things about the Village, so I hurried my way there first. Climbing Wimbledon Hill Road, I could indeed feel the crowds of Frappucino-slurping students and honking car horns behind me, and I reached the quaint High Street in good spirits.


As I approached Wimbledon Common, however, I could see that the searingly hot sunshine that day imbued the whole place with a kind of stale, staid immobility.  The grass was faded to a limp straw colour, there were small clumps of teenagers slumped sweatily here and there, and even a group of enterprising Frisbee players looked  lethargic and defeated.  The paths around the Common were little more than dirt, and in the oppressive heat the stones and pebbles seemed to glint and shimmer.  I didn't last long before I turned around - I'd spotted a Pain Quotidien on the High Street and lurked there for an hour or so with tea and a tartine.


Mid-sip I was struck with a sense of familiarity.  Just as the hill lead to a beautiful High Street and untamed Common, so did Holloway Road lead to Highgate Village and Hampstead Heath, my favourite stomping grounds of a few months ago way up in N6. London may be a patchwork of many patterns, but look closely and you'll see the same cloth repeated over and over again. Perhaps I'm starting to make sense of this city now - starting to make the connections.  If days of freedom aren't intended for us to make sense of the world we live in, I'm not really sure what they're for.