Goodness, that went on and on and . . . on, didn't it?!
Can't remember ever having watched a Wimbledon final quite like it.
Gardening? Chores? Properly functioning family life? All forgotten in the excitement.
And as for Rafael's vest. Well. Gosh. Should it be allowed?
Me: g-r-o-a-n . . .
Son: but he won the point, Mum!
Me: yes, I know. It's just, you know, his, well, biceps . . .
Son: what's wrong with them?
Me: nothing! nothing at all! it's just . . . almost . . . too . . . unbearable . . . to look at them . . .
Son: you mean you like his arms?
Me: g-r-o-a-n. Yes.
Son: you really really like them?
Son: you mean it's, like, if you were a man and a woman was playing, like, topless?
Me: yup. pretty much . . .
Son: . . . oh
Achieving absolutely nothing between 1.30 and 9.30 pm (apart from watching telly) has understandably taken its toll. I'm completely exhausted.