David Robbins: I play tennis just like that old pro Roger. . . Moore, of course!
If you stand on your tippy-toes and lean to the left, you can just see a row of tennis courts from our bedroom window. You could lean out the window to get a better view, but there's always the danger of "death by stupid act".
For 50 weeks of the year, the courts are empty. Their nets flutter and billow in the wind and, during the winter months, a slippery green algae grows around the baselines.
But for one glorious fortnight in June, they are alive with activity. The pock-pause-pock sound of old, soft tennis balls being hit back and forth fills the air. My wife and I stand on our tippy-toes and look out the window. "It must be Wimbledon," we say.