It's the first week of Wimbledon, it must be...raining

Shaun the Sheep, my new image...


Well, I've made it back to the city of my birth and even had dinner in Wimbledon, where I was brought up, on the night I got back from Bristol. How did I mark my return? With a meal at the Pizza Express in the village, a place I probably took my first date to if only I could remember it.

The inclement British summer continues but everybody's still trying to make the most of it, sitting outside pubs freezing their buns off and in generally good cheer in spite of the tough economic situation. I just love London when I'm in an expansive frame of mind - and I rarely laugh so much as when in the company of sardonic, self-deprecating English people. I also had a lovely long chat with a cab driver from Ghana yesterday which ended with a mutual "it's been a pleasure to talk with you" and no I wasn't half-cut after a long night in the pub.



Wimbledon village on a sunny day...

So, anyhow, within a ten minute walk of the home my family lived in for 43 years, the tennis championships continue, when the rain stops occasionally, with the ridiculously high hopes, aspirations and even a fair few wagers of all my former countrymen and women riding on the bony shoulders of Mr Andrew Murray. Why do we do it to our poor sports people? We've turned David Beckham into a fairground attraction (actually that was probably more Victoria's fault), Lewis Hamilton into the Great Black Hope, the England/South Africa cricket team into a bunch of show ponies and now we put an irritable Scot under ludicrous pressure to come up with our first Wimbledon men's singles trophy since dinosaurs roamed the earth. He's better than Tim "NIce" Henman but come on, he'll never be a flamboyant Nadal, a meticulous Swiss watch like Federer or even a grumpy, teeth-gritting winner like Hewitt. My prediction, another glorious exit in the semi-finals.




In case anybody should be interested in what it was like growing up in Wimbledon and falling asleep at the tennis final then my Herald/Age story from a few years back will shed some light: http://www.smh.com.au/travel/activity/active/love-all-wimbledon-20081113-64e2.html

The adventure continues for me with a trip to luverly Walthamstow today to meet up with my long lost cousin Tom. We rediscovered each other two years ago after the last member of my immediate family, my brother Alex, died in Barcelona and he's an absolute one-off. Once ultra religious - a leader in his local church - but also fascinated by geology, Tom set off on a journey to prove the Bible right by exploring geological sites around the UK. Within days he could see that much of what he believed to be gospel was not and he renounced his religion to go on a different spiritual path. Amazing man, I'm lucky to have him as a friend and he'll no doubt be taking me on a favourite walk.

Family nostalgia must be in the air because the other day, at Bristol Zoo, I met with another cousin from my Dad's side, Richard and his lovely wife Anne. I hadn't seen Richard since 1988 but was a bit taken aback when he said "it's probably fifty years since we saw each other" because I wouldn't have been born if that were the case. Somewhat surreal to stroll among penguins, weird-looking okapis (half zebra/half antelope) and gorillas with a distant member of my family tree. And by the way, I'm not talking about one of the gorillas.

I just loved Bristol, especially on the second day when I visited the brand new M Shed (probably the best museum in terms of inclusion and interactivity I've ever visited), the SS Great Britain (again, wonderfully presented) and cycled up to and over Clifton suspension bridge (what a structure) with my old work colleague, actress Susie Fugle. Fantastic to be shown the city on bikes by local Susie and to meet a fellow Aussie working at the Lido, a gem of a place that has a pool, cafe, bar and spa on a suburban Clifton street.

But now, before departure for Munich on my birthday on Sunday, I'm into hard-core catching with mates. The nucleus of the group I'm seeing here was formed at Manchester uni back in the 1980s. There's ex-lothario Monty, the always good-natured and furiously industrious Paul from Bolton, me and of course my erudite and unwaveringly supportive gastronome mate Phil, who also, by coincidence was brought up in Wimbledon. We all did Drama, we all support Man Utd and we all stayed on in Manchester for a year extra living in condemned council flats where murder, armed hold-ups, heroin addiction and pregnant 12 year olds were common. And that was just on our floor! One quick story from those days: one of our flats was robbed (again) and some of our worthless possession taken. But after making some enquiries our next door neighbour said it was her eight and nine year old who'd broken in and to ask them where they'd put the stuff. When we did, the little boy, Micky, said "yeah, it were us and you'll find yer gear by the bins at the bottem of dem stairs." Little Babs, who was deeply in love with the curved hipped Monty once also said to him: "I love yer so much that I like yer!"

Well, speak of the devil, the old devil Monty's here for breakfast so I better go. I'll keep you posted on the weather, Andy Murray's form and the British nation's great expectations.