Death Serves An Ace*

“What a sport: tennis,” Fabrice Santoro says, sighing.  Whilst I was meditating and sleeping, Tsonga won the first two sets and was just about to win the match when Berdych somehow wrestled the tie-break off him, took the third set and is now in the ascendant: 3 – 1 up in the third set.  Tsonga is shouting at himself – cross and disappointed.  He’s in black and Berdych is in blue and orange.

Have washed self and hair and dragged the airer into brother’s room.  Now I’ve washed up my omelette pan, wiped the surfaces, chucked the magazines and stuffed the birthday cards onto the bookshelves, the flat looks tidy.  Have even changed the birds’ water and filled up the robin food.

Seb is on his way.  Maybe ought to make some supper.  Can’t be bothered though.  There’s pizza and stuffed pasta in the freezer and a cauliflower in the fridge.  It seems more important to rest and to watch the tennis.

Tsonga’s pulled it back to 3 – 3.  “The weather still being kindish to us,” the commentator says.  

“You’ve got to applaud Berdych: you’ve got to applaud his ambition to storm the net,” we’re told.

Oooohhhhhh Gael Monfils versus Roger Federer next.  If this match ever ends: it’s been three hours already. 

“That’s outrageous ball striking by Tsonga,” the commentator says.  “A throwback to the first set when he was hitting without fear and frustrating the fourth seed.”  And he’s got two break points and then he’s broken Berdych: 5 – 3 to Tsonga.

Tsonga is serving for the match.  15 – 0.  30 – 0.  “Fabrice has left us: he thinks it might be interview time shortly.”  40 – 0.  Three match points.  And then he’s won.  “And that’s a special win,” the commentator tells us.

“And that’s perked up your Sunday afternoon, hasn’t it,” John Inverdale says, as Tsonga grins, showing a mouthful of bright white teeth.  He’s got a great smile.  He’s a cutie: hasn’t quite fulfilled his early promise – after knocking Federer out in the Wimbledon quarterfinal (I think) a few years ago.  He seems to lose concentration or his stamina isn’t as good as some of the others.   He’s lovely to watch though.

My bad arm is hurting so am going to rest it for a bit.  It’s windy out there.  Need to relax.

Happy Sunday evening everyone!
*1939.  By Helen Mills and Robert Murphy.  “A scarce tennis-based novel by Helen Mills” apparently.

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