It's the third day here at the Championships, and the sun is beating down on the grass, heating up the fans, making the strawberries sweat as they wait for a cream bath and a dusting of sugar. We rolled in early, and set off for breakfast with a spring in our step, and hope in our hearts.
Hope for eggs that look like eggs, sausages that don't wear their skins like a fake tan lie, toast that gives up a rasping sigh of delight as butter is worked into its crispy skin... oh, how our hopes are regularly dashed on the canteen rocks.
It might seem as if I moan a fair bit (too much?) about the state of the food, but when you are doing as many hours as we are, food is a pretty important part of the equation. So the dismay may well be palpably obvious, but justified. And, once you have selected your breakfast you then have to run the gauntlet of the Random Pricing Structure that seems to be in operation this year. This morning I had some scrambled eggs (whatever it was was indeed scrambled, but I am not convinced it was egg) on two bits of toast, a solitary sad-looking sausage, and a cup of coffee. It cost two pounds more than yesterday. Indeed it cost two pounds more than the chap in front of me was charged - for the same selection. I raised this with the woman on the till who replied with a very sweet but vacuous smile. No words. Just a smile. I waved my hands in front of her eyes, and there was no reaction. I left her smiling, and ate.
Back to the IBM Internet room, and straight into seeking out photos of players on court today so we can prepare some home page shots in advance. That done we skim the rest of the images in the inbox, looking for ambient photos that we can use to accompany the more general news round-ups that are written for the site. Sitting at my desk I can feel my legs warming up, and my top half cooling down as the machines under the enclosed desk space fight with the air conditioning that blows its frosty breath along the top of the room until it hits the windows and falls on us like an unthermal blanket. I am sure it can't be doing us much good.
I got out to take a few photos yesterday, some of which are below.
- An abandoned sticker lies on the trampled grass that runs along the top of Court 18.
- A player, whose name escapes me at the moment, chases down a very speedy ball.
- The same player successfully returns a backhand shot.
- Kuznetsova, lacking her trademark cornrow hairstyle, slams a forehand towards her opponent as the light starts to fade.
- Morigami serves, her shadow stretching out before her on the neatly mown grass.
- The crowd at one end of Court 18 wait whilst the players have a brief break and change ends.
- The large screen at the foot of Henmurray Hillmound reflected in a shiny pair of glasses.
- Security guards (volunteers from the Services) silhouetted in an entrance to Court No.1.
- A glass of something refreshing.
- Nicolas Devilder serves on Court 19.
- Fans on the hill applaud as Murray eventually triumphs.
- I think this chap wanted to get in the papers. Or on TV. He probably succeeded.
- A blue sky heralds another successful day in SW19.
Hope for eggs that look like eggs, sausages that don't wear their skins like a fake tan lie, toast that gives up a rasping sigh of delight as butter is worked into its crispy skin... oh, how our hopes are regularly dashed on the canteen rocks.
It might seem as if I moan a fair bit (too much?) about the state of the food, but when you are doing as many hours as we are, food is a pretty important part of the equation. So the dismay may well be palpably obvious, but justified. And, once you have selected your breakfast you then have to run the gauntlet of the Random Pricing Structure that seems to be in operation this year. This morning I had some scrambled eggs (whatever it was was indeed scrambled, but I am not convinced it was egg) on two bits of toast, a solitary sad-looking sausage, and a cup of coffee. It cost two pounds more than yesterday. Indeed it cost two pounds more than the chap in front of me was charged - for the same selection. I raised this with the woman on the till who replied with a very sweet but vacuous smile. No words. Just a smile. I waved my hands in front of her eyes, and there was no reaction. I left her smiling, and ate.
Back to the IBM Internet room, and straight into seeking out photos of players on court today so we can prepare some home page shots in advance. That done we skim the rest of the images in the inbox, looking for ambient photos that we can use to accompany the more general news round-ups that are written for the site. Sitting at my desk I can feel my legs warming up, and my top half cooling down as the machines under the enclosed desk space fight with the air conditioning that blows its frosty breath along the top of the room until it hits the windows and falls on us like an unthermal blanket. I am sure it can't be doing us much good.
I got out to take a few photos yesterday, some of which are below.
- An abandoned sticker lies on the trampled grass that runs along the top of Court 18.
- A player, whose name escapes me at the moment, chases down a very speedy ball.
- The same player successfully returns a backhand shot.
- Kuznetsova, lacking her trademark cornrow hairstyle, slams a forehand towards her opponent as the light starts to fade.
- Morigami serves, her shadow stretching out before her on the neatly mown grass.
- The crowd at one end of Court 18 wait whilst the players have a brief break and change ends.
- The large screen at the foot of Henmurray Hillmound reflected in a shiny pair of glasses.
- Security guards (volunteers from the Services) silhouetted in an entrance to Court No.1.
- A glass of something refreshing.
- Nicolas Devilder serves on Court 19.
- Fans on the hill applaud as Murray eventually triumphs.
- I think this chap wanted to get in the papers. Or on TV. He probably succeeded.
- A blue sky heralds another successful day in SW19.
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