It was round about halfway through the second set and things were hotting up on Centre Court when I noticed the mobile starting to flash silently in my breast pocket. Furtively I fished it out. There was no choice. You have to be on call. Even in the throes of the greatest tennis match ever played, you have to be ready to respond to events.
I saw that someone had sent me a text. Was it news of a burst main on the Marylebone Road? Had the police made some breakthrough?
It was my old mucker Steve Norris, and here was the message he had the effrontery to send me. “Shouldn’t you be attending to civic duties,” texted Nozza, “rather than swanning around in the Royal Box at Wimbledon?” Continue reading Centre Court, Wimbledon