Wimbledon

I went to Wimbledon yesterday. Startlingly brilliant tickets - on Centre Court, in the lower part of the second tier, in a corner, where our view was fantastic, for the women's semi finals. And that should be it, shouldn't it, as a summary of why you go to Wimbledon. Except that, as I discovered for the first time yesterday, Wimbledon is an institution that spans fashion, food, society, rabid gossip, and sport is merely the icing on the cake. I remember watching Glenn Close in the film Dangerous Liaisons, a remake taken from the novel by Choderlos de Laclos (one of my set texts for my Batchelors Degree in French, which is why I sound so much better informed than I really am). There is a scene in the film where Glenn, playing the seamy Madame de Meurteuil to perfection, patches, beauty spots and garters a-brim, walks into her box at the opera. She picks up her opera glasses and looks not at the stage, but at the audience. She wants to know who is there, who they are with, and whether she can spot any intrigue. And she's not alone either. Everyone else is doing it. There is a hum of chatter as people covertly pass on gossip while the poor woman on stage is doing her best to belt out an aria over the hum. Well, that is Wimbledon. Most people have their binoculars focused on the Royal Box trying to see who's sitting in there. That's Victoria Beckham, said a woman in our row. No it isn't, said another woman, taking the binoculars from her. It's Sarah Jessica Parker. I looked. It was neither. It was just some posh twit in a peach coloured skater dress with far too much fake tan and oversize Bottega Venetas. That's Cliff Richard, said someone else, pointing to a bloke in a suit. Which one, I asked. There were LOADS of blokes in suits. Complete with boater hats and canes, for crying out loud. Canes?? Who on earth uses those in 21st century life? Wimbledon is populated by women with thin pins tottering in designer shoes carrying bags dripping with designer labels in one hand and a large cup of Pimms in the other, all doing their level best to impersonate Pippa Middelton. Outside the court there are at least three times as many people as there are inside the court. They are eating strawberries, watching the play on screen and swapping celebrity titbits. Inside the court, people are hushed during play, and as soon as a rest is called, they are off again. I have come to Wimbledon straight from work so I just about fit the dress code - I wear a red jersey dress, white shoes, fabulous white sunglasses (Crocs, since you ask - funky, plastic, and likely to fall apart any minute) and my black Kate Spade bag, the only designer thing I possess, and am not proud to let on that when I first spotted it I nearly fainted at the price so I hung on till the sale and got it bought for me as a birthday present. I sit there feeling mildly intimidated, absolutely loving the superb tennis being played by elite athletes, sipping my Pimms because you HAVE to have Pimms when you go to Wimbledon; wondering whether I want strawberries and cream, which I loathe - love strawberries, hate them with cream - because That Is What You Eat At Wimbledon.  Wimbledon is a social day out. It is incredible how much of a social catalyst a major sporting fixture can be. For some people of course, not all. I scanned the crowd for a non white face. I think that in the 10,000 in the arena, I spotted around ten. But I may have double counted. Easily done after a large cup of Pimms.